


Unconditionally Horny and Eternally Sad

by wormstaches (lamarnza)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst and Humor, Anxiety Disorder, Awkward Sexual Situations, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, High School, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attack, Teen Angst, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamarnza/pseuds/wormstaches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
  <i></i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Come out of the swamp/Build a house." — Abigail SR</p><p> </p><p>  <i>It's your typical boy-likes-boy story. Boy 1 is sad, Boy 2 is horny. Let's call Boy 1 Castiel Novak; he's spent his entire life being left behind by everybody around him. Boy 2 is named Dean Winchester; he just wants Castiel to fall in love with him, and is determined to show Cas he isn't everybody.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconditionally Horny and Eternally Sad

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [DCBB](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com) over on LJ
> 
> [art masterpost](http://alt69.livejournal.com/19714.html)  
> [fic masterpost](http://wormstaches.livejournal.com/11140.html) (PDF coming soon)  
> [playlist](http://open.spotify.com/user/1229145532/playlist/3piOvb4rawrJXVNBOVD0NR) (download coming soon)
> 
> Endless thank you's to my amazing artist, [Drei](http://alt69.livejournal.com) and all my friends who cheered me on.

Castiel bites his lip as he checks his watch. 7:12. Two minutes. He glances out the window of the bus, tightening his grip on the handhold as it jerks around a corner. They’re too far from the station. 7:13. He changes the song on his iPod and changes it back. Every morning he catches the same bus at the same time to have ten minutes alone with Dean Winchester because Dean passes the bus stop every day at 7:15 and every day he pulls over and asks Castiel if he wants a ride. 7:14. Castiel sighs and shifts his grip, skipping forward several more songs. The bus veers around a corner and he stumbles into an older woman who chatters angrily at him in another language. It hits him that this also means he will have to take a second bus, which is almost as annoying as not seeing Dean in the morning.  
   
It’s not like his relationship with Dean is the whole Unpopular Boy Likes Popular Boy But They Live In Different Worlds And Popular Boy Is Straight And He Gets A Ride Because Their Parents Are Friends trope. No. He and Dean are friends, he’s certain of that much. And Dean is open about his fluid sexuality and high-up-but-not-a-popular-kid social status. Dean is honest, and that’s why Castiel likes him, he supposes, because Dean’s honesty makes Castiel feel like he can be honest too. He sees Dean at school, he’s been over and hung out with Dean and Sam while they played video games, but they never hang out alone— there’s something tense there when they do, and neither of them seems to want to explore it. When they’re sitting in the Impala, it’s comfortable, the tension relaxed, and Castiel parts from Dean outside the school with a smile on his face.  
   
Castiel illuminates his iPod screen and checks the time. 7:19. The light turns green and the bus swings around the corner and pauses at the stop, doors wheezing open. 7:20. He grits his teeth and sidles off between the other jostling strangers. He feels like he’s about to cry, a pit of nausea in his stomach.  
   
It’s just a car ride. Just a ride. Just ten minutes. And he’ll see him tomorrow.  
   
He repeats this to himself as he shuffles to the corner half-heartedly, pressing the button for the street crossing even though it’s unnecessary. The light changes and he’s stepping off the curb when a familiar honk jolts him out of his trance. His head snaps up, surprised, and he feels his mouth fall open as he sees the Impala parked right in front of the bus stop. He wonders how stupid Dean must think he is for walking past the car as he opens the door and slides into the passenger seat.  
   
“Good morning, Dean,” he says as he sets his backpack down between his feet.  
   
“Mornin’ Cas,” Dean smiles. He pulls out and swinging onto a side road to cut up the hill to school.  
   
Cas checks the time on his iPod as he tugs the buds from his ears. 7:25. He can’t believe it. He zips it into his bag. Why would Dean have been anywhere near the bus stop this late? He hazards a sideways glance at Dean, heat filling his face.  
   
“Dean…” he begins, but Dean cuts him off.  
   
“Before you ask, I was waiting for you.”  
   
“Oh.”  
   
They turn a corner and as they drive up the street, there’s an awkward silence Castiel hates. The car ride is usually quiet, but always in a nice way. He and Dean are always quiet together, but it always feels right, not like they have nothing to say. If anything, they have too much to say and would rather not even begin to try to say any of it.  
   
“Okay,” he says again.  
   
Dean still says nothing, knucklebones pressing white against his skin as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel. He keeps his gaze ahead.  
   
They drive for a few more moments, before Castiel attempts to distill the awkwardness once again. “I am trying to start a conversation.”  
   
Dean smiles.  
   
“To diffuse the awkwardness that has pervaded the car.”  
   
Dean laughs and Castiel hates the way he speaks normally in his head but the words just fuck up on their way out.  
   
“I mean,” he coughs. “I would like it to feel like our ride usually does.”  
   
Dean nods. “I got you, Cas, don’t worry.”  
   
And Castiel feels like Dean has always _got him_.  
   
“I don’t think things could ever be awkward with us, Cas. You’re too awkward already.” Dean gives Castiel a playful shove and Castiel smiles.  
   
“Sorry.”  
   
“Don’t apologize, it’s fine,” Dean answers. “You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t awkward.”  
   
“I’m supposed to laugh at that.”  
   
“Yeah, you were,” Dean laughs. “Too late now. It’s okay though.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
“I don’t think I’d like you so much if you weren’t as awkward.”  
   
Castiel’s gaze snaps from watching a passing couple with a stroller and a dog to Dean. His mouth is dry and suddenly the only thing he can hear is his heartbeat. Or maybe it’s Dean, because Dean’s face has gone red and he won’t look at Castiel.  
   
“Excuse me?”  
   
Castiel winces because that was definitely a squeak.  
   
“You wouldn’t be as awesome if you weren’t so awkward.”  
   
Castiel decides it’s time to ask the question that’s been rolling around his head since he first got into the car.  
   
“Dean, why were you waiting for me?”  
   
He immediately feels bad because Dean looks like he wants to die as soon as Castiel asks it.  
   
“Shit,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “I was hoping you’d forget to ask me that.”  
   
Castiel looks at Dean in confusion, tilting his head to the side, and Dean smiles weakly.  
   
“You’re too smart for that, though.”  
   
Dean pauses.  
   
“This morning I looked at myself in the mirror and I said, ‘Dean Winchester, today you are growing a pair,’ and when I passed the bus stop and you weren’t there I sighed and went ‘Okay, today’s not my lucky day,’ and kept driving and then I remembered saying, ‘Dean Winchester, today you are growing a pair,’ and I knew I’d hate myself forever if I didn’t turn around and go back so I did and I waited for you because I’d already decided to ask you out and I knew I’d probably never Grow A Pair again if I didn’t do it today and why _not_ today because it’s a nice day even if it’s cloudy and cold, I mean it’s perfectly nice ‘cause you did show up and I’m giving you a ride and those are always nice days ‘cause I get to see you somewhere other than our shithole school and—” Dean runs his fingers through his hair, “—and I mean it would be a waste if I didn’t ask you to go to a movie with me tonight since I already decided I would.”  
   
Dean’s face has grown redder and redder throughout the monologue and from the heat filling every pore of Castiel’s skin, he’s sure his has too.  
   
Dean sighs loudly as they pull up outside of school. Castiel makes no move to get out of the car and neither does Dean. “And you’re totally straight and I just made an ass out of myself.”  
   
Castiel laughs at this because _straight_ is hardly a word Castiel would use to describe himself, although _gay_ isn’t exactly either. But that’s a whole other can of worms he doesn’t want to open right now because what’s more important is the fact that Dean just asked him on an actual _date_ like to a fucking movie and Cas knows he can build a bridge with all that other bullshit and cross it later.  
   
“I don’t consider myself heterosexual,” he finally replies, hazarding a glance at Dean and looking away quickly when he finds him staring intently.  
   
“So that means…”  
   
Castiel has never heard so much hope in Dean’s voice— he is usually resigned to whatever direction the winds of fate throw him in. He forces himself to look at Dean and finds it easy once he starts. “I’ll see you tonight.”  
   
Dean spends a minute sort of just grinning and clenching his fists and tapping his feet in excitement before he stammers, “Great, I’ll pick you up at eight,” and squeezing Cas’s arm. Cas thinks _you are adorable_ and is startled by the thought.  
   
They climb out of the car together and stand for a minute, reflected in the rear window and Dean reaches forward before pulling his hand back.  
   
“Thanks, Cas.”  
   
“For what?”  
   
“Saying yes.”  
   
“Why wouldn’t I?”  
   
“You’re you.”  
   
“And you’re Dean.”  
   
They smile and stand for a moment, fidgeting, before passing each other to walk in the direction of their classes. Dean’s hand finds Cas’s, squeezing his fingers in passing, little more than a touch of wind, and Castiel feels blown along by it all day.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
He’d never tell Dean, but Cas sits at the kitchen table for over an hour staring between the clock on the oven and the starched curtains on the window above the sink, glowing soft yellow from the streetlights outside.  
   
7:45  
   
Cas tries to read his book and ends up just flipping through the pages aimlessly. He closes it, sliding it to the center of the table.  
   
7:50  
   
He gets to his feet and squints at his blurred reflection in the chrome of the refrigerator. He runs his fingers through his hair and even in the hazy, warped image he can see it’s unruly. It’s like this when he wakes up and he can’t be bothered to do anything about it. He tried for a moment the first week of freshman year but gave up. It wasn’t worth it. Now, tugging on the askew tips, Castiel wishes he could tell the difference between sex hair and slob hair and which one he has. Maybe he should just cut it all off. There’s a honk outside and he starts, nearly falling backwards and cracking his head open on the table.  
   
There’s another honk and Castiel glances at his reflection in the fridge once more, tugs on the hem of his shirt and then his hoodie, yanks his sleeves over his fingers, and darts out the door.  
   
“Sorry,” Cas says as he opens the door and climbs into the car.  
   
“For what?”  
   
“I don’t know.”  
   
“Then don’t apologize.” Dean watches him as he buckles his seatbelt, eyes clouded.  
   
“Is something wrong?” Castiel asks.  
   
“No. Why?” Dean answers as he begins driving.  
   
“You’re looking at me strangely.”  
   
“Your hair,” Dean laughs, and Cas looks at his hands shamefully. “Looks hot.”  
   
He lets out a choked cough of surprise and glances up at Dean, who blushes under Cas’s sudden scrutiny.  
   
“Not cool? Sorry.”  
   
“No. No, it’s…fine,” Cas stammers, rolling his lip between his teeth nervously and trying to figure out where to look when he notices Dean watching the movement. He’s not ready for this. He’s screaming in his head.  
   
He lets Dean pick the movie and it’s rated R and they both agree Cas will fuck up the lying about their age part if he goes up to the window with Dean. He apologizes for this as well and Dean tells him it’s okay and there is a tense moment where Cas stares at Dean’s eyes while Dean stares at his mouth. It finally ends when Cas practically fled in the direction of the water fountain and Dean goes to buy their tickets.  
   
Castiel takes gulp after sloppy gulp from the trickle of water, watching the rivulet coil around the silver bowl of the fountain, slipping down the drain and out of sight. He wants to go with it. He can’t do this, not with anyone, especially Dean. Who has he been kidding? You can’t just go on a date, not with a guy you _liked_ and expect things to work out, not when everything was so fucked up not when you were so fucking hopeless at everything.  
   
“Hey, Cas, come on!”  
   
Cas’s jumped up and he turned around, picking Dean out of the crowd and hurrying to him. “Sorry. I was thirsty.”  
   
“It’s fine, stop apologizing.” Dean bumps Cas’s shoulder with his own and there’s so much in the gesture Cas is overwhelmed for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing in the sticky smell of popcorn and nacho cheese. He prays for it to calm him, but it just makes him slightly nauseous.  
   
Cas can feel the scratch of the polyester velvet of the seat through his jeans. His left hand is resting on the armrest between he and Dean, his right absentmindedly rubbing the fabric on his thigh. He’s bursting with energy and wonders how in the hell Dean can be so casually eating popcorn and drinking root beer and generally _paying attention to the movie_ because as hard as he’s tried— which, to be honest, was about fifteen minutes —Castiel has been unable to do anything but shake slightly from the speed at which his heart is beating and be aware of _every single one_ of Dean’s movements.  
   
It’s not the good kind of feeling books are so fond of describing. It’s terrifying and he can’t breathe and he feels like he’s about to have a panic attack— which wouldn’t be too surprising —and he just wants it to. He wants to go home and get into bed and lie on his back with his iPod and see Dean in the morning and keep it like that. Keep it in the car.  
   
And he doesn’t know where most of the movie went because they’re already at the sex scene and he doesn’t know where to look because he sure as hell doesn’t want to watch it and he sure as hell can’t look at Dean, or at his hands since they’re too far apart to be knotted together. So he just panics with his eyes and worries the fabric of his jeans until his finger burns from the friction. There’s a jump cut and movement in the corner of his eye and then Dean is sliding his fingers between Cas’s own and rubbing his thumb along Castiel’s wrist in gentle circles. It’s such a fluid motion Cas is sure he’s had plenty of practice and he _hates_ that because it feels so _singular_ so _special_ so _unique_ and he’s telling himself over and over that he’s not any of these things.  
   
But when he finally brings himself to look at Dean, Dean isn’t watching the movie, he’s watching him, and his eyes behind the flickering blue of the screen makes him believe all of it and more and Castiel swears the entire theater was just pulled out from under him. He opens his mouth to say something, but chokes on the air that fills it. Dean’s mouth quirks in a smile and his other hand crosses his lap to rest on top of Castiel’s. He scoots as close to Dean as he can with the armrest between them, inside legs bumping, and he doesn’t let himself rest his head on Dean’s shoulder.  
   
The film ends and they stay in their seats, blankly watching the credits scroll by. Dean sighs and shifts and Castiel desperately wants to tell him to stay there, to not get up, not let go, but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t have to, because Dean holds on even as he gets to his feet.  
   
“I guess I better be taking you home, soon. It’s late,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.  
   
“No one cares,” Castiel replies, climbing to his feet. “Dad’s out of town and Gabe is…Gabe: not home.” He bites back a smile as his wrist bumps against Dean’s. It finally feels like the whole night has _clicked_. It feels like it’s supposed to.  
   
They walk through the theater and across the parking lot. Cas is stumbling and stalling, doing everything he can to stop the progression of time, to keep the warmth of Dean’s hand in his forever. The same nagging voice he’s carried in his pocket since he was twelve is telling him it’s a lie and he’s stupid and he should let go and lose Dean’s number before it’s too late, before he’s too attached, but Cas tells it to shut up, because for this night, he decides he’s allowed to want something.  
   
But he can’t just stop walking and they find themselves in front of the car far too soon and stand beside the passenger side door for a long moment, looking to and from the other, hands still clenched tightly together. Cas lingers and Dean does too, or rather, he doesn’t tell Cas to hurry up. Dean moves first, breathing deeply and loudly and letting his hand fall from Cas’s as quickly as he let it hold on. He shifts to the driver’s side and they both climb in.  
   
They shut their doors with a click and sit in the stillness of the parking lot, the shadows flickering beneath the buzz of the fluorescent lights. Their breathing is slow and coarse in the stillness.  
   
Castiel turns just as Dean lunges over the stick shift, cupping Cas’s face in his hands and kissing him the way an incredibly hungry animal might, teeth and tongue and Castiel has no idea if this is classified as elegant and artful kissing or sloppy and desperate kissing. To him it just feels _wrong_ as Dean slips his tongue between Cas’s lips, thick and unwelcome, shifting and pushing and pulling, one arm braced against the small of Castiel’s back, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his jeans and Cas isn’t sure where to put his hands he feels like he’s dying; he can’t breathe or think or even see. He tells himself _this is how it goes this is what happens you_ like _Dean this is_ nice _don’t_ _fuck it_ _up,_ and tries to kiss back. He tries to find a place for his hands, resting them awkwardly on Dean’s shoulders. Dean’s hand moves from his face and he feels it on his side and his hip and pressing against his crotch, fingers stumbling with the zipper and Dean’s erection through his jeans against Castiel’s leg and it’s _too much_. Cas lets out a small cry pushes Dean off with more force than he wanted to. He scoots up against the door and braces one hand on the door, shoulders tight and close to his ears. He is trying not to cry and knows he’s not doing a very good job of it. He’s shaking how a small dog does, clambering to get a handle on his breath and his pulse.  
   
“No,” he says, firming the word between his lips and feeling steadied by it. “I didn’t intend—”  
   
“What the fuck was that?” Dean snaps and he’s never looked so _young_ before.  
   
“Uh…um,” Cas isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say, isn’t sure what he wants to say. He tugs up his zipper and tries to not look at Dean. He’s unable to tear his eyes away. He wishes Dean would stop looking at him, it would make things hurt less.  
   
“I just want to hold your hand,” he says by means of explanation.  
   
“Well I just want to fuck you,” Dean says derisively, then seems to feel bad and tacks on, “And hold your hand.”  
   
Castiel says nothing.  
   
“And stuff.”  
   
Castiel still says nothing. He isn’t sure he could if he had anything to say.  
   
“I don’t do that,” he says uncertainly, when the silence becomes too much. He feels Dean’s anger like a heat against his skin.  
   
“Do what?”  
   
“That.”  
   
“You mean like—” Dean mimes something Cas really wishes he hadn’t. Castiel nods.  
   
“But it’s like…y’know.”  
   
“No, I don’t.” Castiel feels his panic burning into irritation at the edges.  
   
“What?”  
   
“I don’t…uh…I don’t like…uh…I don’t sex or touching or—” He’s finally able to tear his gaze away from Dean and Castiel bitterly thinks that when he is finally able to say something the way a normal human would, it’s something he really wishes he wasn’t saying.  
   
“So you were leading me on?” Dean’s voice is cold, resigned, and Castiel hates it.  
   
“No,” he replies definitively and a bit defensively. “I like you, Dean. Really.”  
   
“Just not have sex with me like me.”  
   
“I am sure if I found myself sexually attracted to anyone it would be you.”  
   
“Wow, that really helps.”  
   
“It was supposed to.”  
   
Dean sighs.  
   
“It didn’t really though, did it?”  
   
“No, it didn’t.”  
   
“Sorry.”  
   
Dean doesn’t tell him not to be this time.  
   
“I think I should just take you home,” he says, turning the key in the ignition without waiting for Cas’s reply.  
   
“Yeah thanks for the…uh…movie,” Cas says dumbly, folding his hands in his lap as they pull out of the parking lot.  
   
“No problem. Sorry I…uh…couldn’t get you off.” Dean is bitter and half-mocking and Castiel tells himself he won’t cry.  
   
Dean doesn’t wait for him to get inside when he drops Cas off, pulling away the second Cas is out of the car.  
   
“Dad, I’m home,” he calls out as he lets himself into the dark house, and his voice echoes off the hardwood floors. Silence meets him and he sighs, resting his back against the cool wood and sliding down to sit on the floor. “Right. You’re not.”  
   
He was waiting to get to his room to cry, but he cries now, fumbling in his pocket to pull out the scrap of paper he carries there and pressing it to his lips, not needing to read the words to know them.  
   
 _Shut the fuck up and be normal. Shut the fuck up and be normal. Shut the fuck up and be normal. SHUT THE FUCK UP AND BE NORMAL_ “SHUT THE FUCK UP AND BE NORMAL,” he screams into the dark, but no one answers and the floors don’t shake and the roof doesn’t cave in like he wants it to. He feels the urge to trash the house. Gabe wouldn’t care and his father wouldn’t notice, but he buries his head between his knees and chews on his lip to keep from sobbing because Castiel Novak has felt sad and hopeless and angry, but never this utterly _hopeless_.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Cas sways, toes extended over the edge of the curb. A car passes. Speckles of dark water splash onto the white rubber tips of his sneakers.  
   
7:13  
   
He changes the song on his iPod. Adjusts his backpack.  
   
7:14  
   
He grips the straps and twists them, friction burning his hands.  
   
7:15  
   
Cas looks up from the pigeon pecking through the grime at the familiar rumble of an engine. The Impala turns the corner and Cas’s breath is caught halfway out as the car comes closer.  
   
7:16  
   
Dean drives by him without pausing, and turns a corner.  
   
7:17  
   
Castiel’s connection bus arrives. He lingers stepping on and paying his fare, waiting for the Impala to reappear. It doesn’t.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
The bus swerves its way up to school and Castiel feels like someone punched him in the stomach and his bruise is Dean Winchester.  
   
At the traffic light, he bites his lip and pulls out his phone. He can be desperate even if he’s not trying to get laid.  
   
 _To: Dean Winchester: Didn’t see you this morning? What’s going on?_  
   
7:25  
   
 _To: Dean Winchester: Is everything okay?_  
   
7:28  
   
 _To: Dean Winchester: Dean, why do you refuse to respond to my texts?_  
   
7:30  
   
 _To: Dean Winchester: Dean._  
   
7:33  
   
 _To: Dean Winchester: Dean, please._  
   
And who was Castiel even kidding it wasn’t like they were a couple.  
   
7:36  
   
 _To: Dean Winchester: You are very obstinate about being an asshole._  
   
7:40  
   
The bus arrives at school and as Castiel is jostled by the current of students pushing to get off the bus he thinks, wryly, it is appropriate that they call groups of fishes _schools_.  
   
As he retrieves his books from his locker he realizes how many times he has gone through that motion and how many more times he will have to.  
   
Dean made things bearable. Ten minutes made his life worth living and now it’s over. He hates how dramatic it is and he hates that it’s mostly true.  
   
The only way to address this is with melodrama, because that’s how Dean would, and there’s nothing left anymore, just repetition— sleep, school, homework, with a thousand bullshit movements in between.  
   
Castiel collapses into his seat with a huff, nodding at Anna and Ruby in the corner and placing his feet on the book holder of the desk in front of him. He pulls his bag onto his lap and rifles through it for the necessary supplies.  
   
There’s a squeak and Castiel finds himself unable to place his books on his desk. The spines butt against a dark denim-clad thigh and he sighs, looking up in exasperation and confusion at the girl sitting on his desk.  
   
“Hey, Cas,” Jo says, rifling his hair and laughing.  
   
“You’re sitting on my desk.”  
   
“No shit, Sherlock.”  
   
“I am not Sherlock Holm…What do you want, Jo?”  
   
“I don’t _want_ anything, Mr. Novak,” Jo teases, mock-scandalized. “You looked bummed out, like, more-so than usual.”  
   
“The reason you’re talking to me is unclear.” Castiel likes Jo, he really does, just sometimes (and by that, he means all the time), he doesn’t want to talk to another human being. _You talk to Dean_ , his mind helpfully supplies.  
   
“I mean, something bad must have happened to make Castiel Novak look more at odds with the world than he usually does— I mean, _Christ_ , your shirt is on backwards—” Castiel thinks about slipping his arms into his t-shirt and turning it right ways round, but chooses the simpler option of zipping up his hoodie. “—and I wanted to check if you were okay.”  
   
“Yes, Jo, I’m _okay_.”  
   
Jo looks at him intently, without any sign of planning on moving. Castiel pokes her thigh and she shifts, the desk creaking warningly, so he can place his things back on it. She runs her fingers along the uneven pages of his notebook, still looking at him.  
   
“Is there something on my face?” he asks irritably.  
   
“You went on a date,” she finally says, her voice taking on the smug tone of someone who already knows they’re right.  
   
Castiel sighs.  
   
“You _totally went on a date_.”  
   
“Yes, Jo. Yes, I did.”  
   
“Ohmygodwith _who_?”  
   
He chooses not to reply, instead opening his notebook to a clean page and beginning his warm-up exercise.  
   
“Come on, this is big news, you’re a hot commodity, not that you’d realize it.”  
   
“A hot commodi…”  
   
“People want to fuck your brains out.” Castiel wonders if this is the only thing people want from him. “But everyone just thinks you’re gay or not interested.”  
   
 _The effects of Stalin’s Three Year Plans on rural Russia were—_  
   
“So…” Jo presses.  
   
“So.”  
   
“Are you?”  
   
“Am I what, Jo?”  
   
— _I do not give a fuck_.  
   
“On the market now. Interested.”  
   
“No.”  
   
He crosses out the end of his sentence with a tinge of regret. The tip of his pen tears through the paper, ink smudging onto the page behind.  
   
“But you went on a date!” She’s practically whining now and Castiel needs her to stop before he hurts her (He likes Jo, he really does. It’s not a _her_ being annoying thing, it’s a _him_ hating everyone thing.).  
   
“It’s just Dean,” he snaps, and her eyes practically push themselves out of their sockets. Her shock turns into a sympathetic smile as the bell rings. She turns herself around and slides into her seat in front of him, twisting around in her desk to wink at Castiel when Dean walks in.  
   
Castiel doesn’t know if he hates Jo, Dean, or himself more.  
   
Their teacher drawls the answer to the warm up and Castiel copies it down sloppily. It’s not like he’ll read it when Castiel turns it in. Well, he probably will— skim it at least. But Castiel copies it sloppily anyways because, he remembers sharply, he’s too tired to do anything else. He sleeps a lot. He’s like a bear, he muses; it’s just that no matter how much sleep he gets, sadness eats it up.  
   
And Dean eats up sadness.  
   
And Dean is no longer talking to him.  
   
His gaze drifts across the room to the farthest front corner, to wear Dean is sitting, practically behind a bookshelf, slumped over, pen twirling in a way that makes it obvious, even from here, that he’s doodling rather than writing— which is why he’s in the front —but Castiel can’t blame him because what else are you supposed to do at school; it’s not like anyone is learning. He tried, for awhile— learning. He tried a lot of things but just realized sleeping was easier.  
   
Castiel sighs (His favorite thing, it seems. A little more effort than breathing, but no effort at all really.).  
   
Dean is looking at him.  
   
Castiel shoots up in his desk, back rigid, eyes frantic. He focuses on the horizontal scrawls meant to be his warm up, and back to Dean.  
   
He’s still looking at him.  
   
Castiel watches Dean, trying to ask a question through his eyes. _Are we okay?_ But apparently eyes are not telepathic, although every love story ever has tricked him to believe otherwise.  
   
He hears Jo laugh in front of him and kicks her awkwardly beneath their desks, catching the back of her leg.  
   
Dean looks away.  
   
The bell rings and Castiel’s first priority is getting out of the classroom as quickly as possible in order to avoid Dean. He pushes his books and pens into his backpack and swings it onto his shoulder without closing it, angling towards the door.  
   
Dean must be thinking the same thing because they meet in the doorway, tangling and tripping as they each try to push out into the hall without looking at the other. They stagger into  the hall and Castiel feels Jo squeeze his arm as she passes by the two of them struggling to get themselves in order.  
   
“Excuse me,” Castiel grunts, yanking his backpack back towards him. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses as notebooks slide out of the open top. He moves to reach down for them, but Dean has already scooped them from the ground, gripping Castiel’s shoulder and turning him around to slip them into his backpack, zipping it shut after.  
   
“Sorry, Cas,” he mutters, hand running down Cas’s arm as he lets go of his shoulder.  
   
Castiel looks down, feet pigeon-toeing in his discomfort, gripping the straps of his backpack and pressing them into his shoulders through his shirt.  
   
“I’ll, uh, see you later,” he says, but Dean is already gone. Castiel fishes in his pocket for his iPod, slides his headphones over his head, and lets his life become a movie with a bratty British soundtrack. It’s easier like this, detached, narrated, something outside of himself, which he’s merely observing.  
 

• • • • • • • • 

   
Wednesday.  
 _To: Dean Winchester: Could I get a ride to school?_  
 _To: Dean Winchester: The bus didn’t shown up._  
 _To: Dean Winchester: Fuck you, I’m late._  
  
Thursday.  
 _To: Dean Winchester: I am aware you hate chick flick moments but I miss you._  
 _To: Dean Winchester: Do you miss me too?_  
   
Friday.  
 _To: Dean Winchester: You were the one who asked me out._  
   
Saturday.  
 _To: Dean Winchester: Dean._  
 _To: Dean Winchester: Dean it’s incredibly immature of you to not even reply._  
 _To: Dean Winchester: Dean._  
 _To: Dean Winchester: We should hang out, we never do._  
 _To: Dean Winchester: It’s now ten, I assume it’s reasonable to conclude we’re not going to hang out._  
   
Sunday.  
 _To: Dean Winchester: Wow, fuck you._  
   
Castiel wakes to go to school on Monday and it feels like something has crawled under his skin and died, and now the ants are swarming to eat it; he itches with irritation, at Dean, himself, at something outside of all of them and all of this he reasons he could attribute to a higher being.  
   
Dean is just a horny asshole.  
   
Dean is, for all intents and purposes his best friend.  
   
Dean is a horny asshole.  
   
He misses him.  
   
Castiel watches Dean the entire class. He doesn’t even bother to do his warm up. There is an acute and aching pressure on the bruise Dean has made of himself in Cas.  
   
Black and blue.  
   
Castiel is black and blue inside and out.  
   
Dean doesn’t look at him once.  
   
About halfway through the period, just to see what will happen, Cas pulls his phone out and types a message beneath his desk.  
   
 _To: Dean Winchester: Are you there?_  
   
Dean takes his phone out after a minute, and Castiel watches him tighten his fingers around it, screen illuminated and shining blue-white onto his jeans, before putting it away. He turns his head slightly in Castiel’s direction, but doesn’t look at him.  
   
The bell rings and there is the unanimous shuffle to get your shit together and get to the next class.  
   
 _To: Castiel Novak: Yeah._  
   
Dean clears out and Castiel sits there dumbly until the classroom is empty and the bell for the next class rings. He gathers his things and sidles between the crooked rows of desks towards the door.  
   
 _I’m sorry._  
   
Dean’s locker is at the end of the hall and Castiel approaches it with a lump in his throat.  
   
 _Castiel Novak, today is the day you are going to grow a pair_.  
   
He passes the bathrooms and thinks about ducking inside to vomit, but decides against it.  
   
 _I’m sorry for the other night, but I would like to try…whatever…it…whatever—something with you, anything._  
   
He’s swallowed a piece of burning shrapnel or something like it because Dean is being pressed up against his locker by fucking _Bela Talbot_ , hands on her hips as she drools on him even though Castiel guesses that’s what teenagers call kissing and he really is going to _vomit_.  
   
He takes a step back and Dean looks up and he meets his eyes— on accident this time —and that makes it even worse.  
   
Castiel turns around and he’s not going to make a scene and he’s not going to cry because he’s seventeen and you’re done with that bullshit at this point in your life because _life sucks_ and there’s nothing you can do about it and crying will just make it _suck more_ because then you’re wet and dirty and out of breath.  
   
He’s walking and walking and faster and faster, turning corners until he’s striding down an empty hallway in a wing with only lockers, no classrooms, and the fluorescent light is bouncing off the linoleum or the linoleum is bouncing off the fluorescents— it’s all blurring together as the tears balance on the edge of his eyes, pressing and at last overflowing in fat drops, reckless and heedless of Castiel’s efforts to hold them back.  
   
There’s _so many_ and they _won’t stop_ and they _weren’t even a couple_ but it _feels like they were_ and Castiel wishes there was someone to scream at. That Dean was there to scream at because this _isn’t fair_.  
   
He hears footsteps, the slight squeak of soles on the floor, and spins around, swallowing his sobs and feeling them writhe their way down his raw throat to claw at the insides of his ribcage.  
   
 _I’m not crying. I’m not crying_. _I’m not—_  
   
“Are you crying?” Dean asks.  
   
 _—crying_. “No.” Castiel bites his lip and knows his body is shaking from the combined pressure of all his held in sobs.  
   
“Cas…” Dean says, voice soft, and Castiel has never hated himself more because every atom of his body is begging to lean into it, to melt into Dean’s _Cas_ and Castiel shakes his head, the sobs pushing out from between his lips at the nickname Dean first coined, and Dean is reaching forward, encircling Cas’s wrists with his hands, tangling their fingers together, leaning down and catching Cas’s lips with his own, soft and pushing only the smallest amount. It’s saltier and nicer than it was in Dean’s car after the movie and as Dean pulls back, Castiel finds himself leaning into it, chasing it and everything it promised.  
   
“Sorry,” Dean says.  
   
“That was nice,” Castiel says simultaneously.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Dean says again, in contrast to the smile that has spread across his face at Castiel’s words.  
   
“For what?” Cas asks.  
   
“Like all of it. Sorry for the other night and making out with Bela just now but I just…I’m not a dinner and a movie kind of guy but I guess you are and I might like it if I try and if I try I’d like to try with you, like however you want to, if you let me— I really like you, okay, like I didn’t really get it at first cos I didn’t think I was gay, but the first time I saw you, at Anna’s party, in that big, red, Chairman Mao t-shirt, choking on one of Pam’s cigarettes, I couldn’t even explain it, I just, I can’t even explain it. You sort of got stuck and didn’t go away and just—”  
   
Castiel knows this is when he’s supposed to kiss Dean frantically, but the thought of that fills him with a special kind of panic he’s learned to reserve exclusively for Dean, so instead he takes his hand— and the motion is as easy as Dean makes it look —and Dean can do nothing but nod and squeeze Cas’s fingers between his own.  
   
They sit out in the quad for lunch, and Castiel understands what people mean when they say _the grass gets greener and the sun gets brighter_ as he eats his apple (he’s not a big lunch person) and Dean eats three sandwiches. The entire time Castiel is aware of Dean’s hand— the shift of fingers, the slight scrape of nails. He’s light headed like the first time he smoked at Lisa’s party and thinks this might be what idiots call happiness.  
   
The bell rings and Dean crumples his paper lunch bag into a ball and tosses it into the trashcan, pulling himself to his feet. Cas stands up with him, and they stand for a moment, hands disentangling.  
   
Dean ducks his head and kisses Cas on the cheek. Castiel notices the way Dean angled to the side to avoid his mouth at the last moment and is grateful for it as Dean walks away. He stops and looks over his shoulder at Cas once, grinning and winking and Cas laughs, turning to go to his own class. He slides into his seat, ignoring a jokingly suggestive eyebrow wiggle from Jo, thinking that yes, this is definitely what idiots call happiness.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Castiel brushes hair out of his eyes, grimacing as he searches for his buzzing phone in the dim dawn light of his room. _What the fuck was someone doing calling him at_ — He snatches his phone from his bedside table, and props himself on his elbows, squinting at the screen. _Calling: Dean Winchester_. Castiel considers pressing ignore and going back to sleep but picks up, deciding that Dean’s worth it. _He’s your boyfriend, you cunt._  
   
“What do you want?” Castiel grumbles, rubbing grit from his eye with the back of his hand.  
   
“I was thinking we could just take the Impala and go and be gay in the city for the day.”  
   
“How does that differ from being gay in the suburbs?” Castiel rolls onto his back, forcing his eyes wide and watching the ceiling swim above him as his brain wakes up. He really just wants to stay in his bed since it’s Saturday, but he guesses “being in a relationship” no longer allows for that. Unless Dean stayed in bed with him. On second thought, he’d rather get up and go to the city. Castiel sits up, pushing the blankets off of his legs.  
   
“Think of it as a date,” Dean proposes. “A second date.”  
   
“Remember how well the first one went?” Castiel sighs. Why is he trying to get out of this? _Stupid sad stupid sad stupid sad Castiel._  
   
“It won’t be like that,” Dean says. “I won’t try to have sex with you. I promise. Not yet.”  
   
Castiel sighs and gets out of bed, floorboards cold against his bare feet as he stretches, bones popping, phone pressed to his ear. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”  
   
“Great, see you in twenty minutes. And wear the Mao shirt.”  
   
Dean hangs up and Castiel wanders into the bathroom to splash water on his face and run wet fingers through his hair, flattening it somewhat for the time being. He shakes his head from side to side so his vision swims when he looks back at his reflection, small, damp strands sticking up as if he’d just gotten out of the shower.  
   
He lays the Mao shirt out on his bed and then thinks _Fuck Dean_ and puts on different shirt and goes downstairs. There’s nothing but the sound of the refrigerator. The living room is empty.  
   
The answering machine flashes with a new voicemail and he deletes it without listening, already knowing what his father would be saying: _My business trip is taking longer than expected. I’m wiring two hundred dollars to your bank account; I told Gabe to check in on you in a few days._ The machine whirs and starts rewinding and Cas sighs, grabbing an orange and going outside. At least his father’s no longer pretending Gabe is well-behaved and lives at home.  
   
Castiel sits on the stoop and peels the orange in a single, continuous twist so the rind coils off into one long spiral. He fiddles with it as he pries each slice from the orange and chews it slowly. When the long, twisting rind splits, he tears it into pieces and dumps it into the flowerbeds.  
   
The Impala pulls up and Castiel climbs into the passenger seat. They start driving and Dean’s hand reaches for the stereo before he pulls it back and rests it on the steering wheel, tapping his fingers.  
   
“Music doesn’t bother me,” Cas says and Dean glances at him before turning the radio on, carefully turning it down low.  
   
Cas smiles. “Of course you’d listen to 70s rock.”  
   
“Only real music for a Winchester,” Dean winks. “And what do you listen to?”  
   
Cas isn’t sure how to answer Dean; people don’t tend to ask his opinion about things. He considers bullshitting and dodging the question, but then asks himself why he _wouldn’t_ reply. “Bratty Indie shit.”  
   
“Of course you would.” Castiel thinks Dean might be flirting, but he isn’t sure so he just lets the seat back a bit and cracks the window. “You should make me a mix.”  
   
Cas smiles, and feels gratified when Dean smiles back. He doesn’t think he makes Dean smile enough and he begins to hate himself for it.  
   
“And I’ll make you one, since you deserve to listen to the best.”  
   
“Assbutt.”  
   
“Fuck you.”  
   
“You wish,” Castiel teases, closing his eyes and crossing his arms. He can feel Dean looking at him and every bone in his body shaking with _wishing_. “Eyes on the road, Dean.”  
   
“Do you like the city?” Dean asks him.  
   
“On occasion. The anonymity is a comfort and simultaneously frightening.”  
   
“Yeah, it’s okay. I thought it would be fun, though. To go with you, y’know.”  
   
“It will be. Everything about us will be.”  
   
“You sound so sure,” Dean says, and Castiel realizes for the first time that he might not be the only one scared shitless.  
   
He opens his eyes and turns towards Dean, looking at him seriously. “I am.”  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
They park the car and as Dean feeds the meter, Cas cranes his neck upwards at the buildings, marveling at the sheer size of everything. He feels scared for a moment, and looks earthwards once again, focusing on Dean. He steps close, takes his hand, and rests his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean looks at him, startled for a moment, before kissing his ear, and tugging on his hand.  
   
“Let’s go.”  
   
Castiel nods and lets Dean pull him along as he always has.  
   
“I like being your boyfriend,” Castiel says suddenly. They are approaching a park and Castiel can see the spindly forms of a playground dotted with children between the trees. Dean looks startled for a moment before smiling and squeezing Cas’s hand, a gesture he has come to equate with Dean wanting to kiss him. Dean squeezes his hand a lot, which doesn’t surprise Cas because it’s Dean, and is also relieving because it’s not actual kissing. _Shut the fuck up and act normal._  
   
“I like you being my boyfriend,” Dean replies, squeezing his hand again.  
   
 “I am not particularly enthused about the whole having a boyfriend thing, as you are aware, but I am quite zealous about _you_ being my boyfriend.”  
   
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”  
   
“It is.”  
   
They pass a corner store and Dean stops.  
   
“Hold on a minute.” He lets go of Cas’s hand.  
   
“What—?”  
   
“Just wait here.”  
   
Castiel can only nod dumbly as Dean ducks into the corner store. He exits the store shortly afterwards, grinning  
   
“Dean, what did you just do?” Castiel asks, eyes narrowing as he straightens up.  
   
Dean just smiles, taking Castiel’s hand and beginning to walk again.  
   
When they enter the park, Dean stops once again and pulls a bottle out of the bag.  
   
“Cherry pie flavored vodka,” he beams, and Castiel nearly physically recoils.  
   
“That is revolting, I refuse to drink that.”  
   
Dean rolls his eyes, opening the bottle and taking a swig. He smiles flirtatiously at Cas and extends the bottle towards him.  
   
“Just one drink,” he wheedles, biting his lip and Cas sighs, taking the bottle from Dean, fingers tripping over Dean’s as he grips the neck.  
   
“It will take more than one drink to get me drunk.” Castiel takes a large sip and grimaces at the artificial sweetness coupled with the slight burn. “And more than getting me drunk to get me to fuck you.”  
   
Dean doesn’t take the bottle when Cas offers it to him. “I don’t want to fuck you,” he says simply.  
   
“Isn’t that the whole point?” Cas retorts, and hate that his voice is already growing sharp.  
   
Dean frowns. “That was never the point.”  
   
Castiel furrows his brows in confusion.  
   
“I mean…I do want to fuck you, that’s just not all that I want to do. I want _this_ like whatever the fuck _this_ is. You. Whatever you’ll give me.” Dean smiles weakly; it stretches into a grin as Cas throws his arms around Dean’s neck, taking the bottle and chugging over his shoulder before placing a vodka-soaked kiss on his cheek and stepping back.  
   
“I want to make this work. More than anything,” he adds earnestly, taking Dean’s hand again.  
   
“Me too,” Dean replies gruffly, refusing to look at Cas, who just smiles.  
   
The world starts tipping and the bottle gets empty and Cas doesn’t mind. His teeth feel like slush and he loses count of Dean’s fingers tangled with his own.  
   
“Hey, hey guess what, Cas?” Dean slurs.  
   
Castiel says nothing, keeping a loose grip on Dean’s hand and watching the pigeons at the top of the play structure shuffle along the metal bar. “I like pigeons,” he says thoughtfully.  
   
Dean considers this before pulling him along the path. They stumble on the cobblestones and laugh, the sounds garbling into their mouths. Dean tugs his hand, jerking Cas forward by the shoulder as he begins to run, Cas sprinting to keep up.  They race along the bend, swerving around pedestrians, picking themselves up resolutely when they fall. Dean tries to drink as they run and ends up spilling more vodka on himself and Cas than he gets into his mouth. A flock of pigeons covers the path in front of them, cooing nervously as they peck at a littering of breadcrumbs. Dean grins at Cas once before they plunge into the fluttering gray sea of birds. There’s a still moment of shock and then everything dissipates into confusion, the birds erupting around them, enveloping them in a flurry of gray feathers, beating against their arms and legs as the pigeons take flight, and all Cas can see is the white of Dean’s smile, and he is laughing, laughing, laughing and his laughter sounds like wingbeats.  
   
They continue onwards, and come across a skating rink, white and glossy and artificial in the green expanse of springtime.  
   
“We should go ice skating,” Dean proposes, and Cas shakes his head.  
   
“Don’t know how.”  
   
Dean laughs at this, “No one _really_ knows how to ice skate.” He pulls Castiel along by the hand and they stumble to the ticket window, shoving each other playfully.  
   
“Two tickets,” Dean exclaims, leaning over the counter, Cas hovering nervously behind him. He’s always nervous, he realizes, and makes the decision to _not be_ , although it doesn’t help much.  
   
“Rink’s closed for hockey practice,” the girl at the counter replies disinterestedly, her frayed blond ponytail bobbing with every smack of her gum.  
   
Dean rolls his eyes and strides into the rink anyway. Cas glances at the girl sheepishly, who raises an eyebrow at him. He hunches his shoulders and follows after Dean.  
   
They sit on the bleachers and watch the players on the ice. Cas glances at Dean, and catches him watching him, eyes dark, the color of the shadows between trees, and Cas sits up straighter, feeling a shiver run down his back and the bottom of his stomach fall out. He looks at his hands, resting on his knees, fingers kneading the denim uneasily. The spaces between his vertebrae are shivering and he looks at Dean again, nervously, overwhelmed all at once and he’s going to— He darts down the bleachers in a rush, angling towards the trashcan by the vending machines, pitching forward as his hand scrabbles at the rim, but his head is skewed and he misses by several feet, eyes swimming as he vomits beside the bleachers. His throat burns and he’s pushing chunks out with his tongue, which is dry and swollen and he could swear his eyes are bleeding. His fingers are shaking as he heaves, knees threatening to give way, and then there’s a warmth against his back, someone kissing his head, fingers running through his hair, pulling it back so it doesn’t flop in his face.  
   
“Easy there, Cas,” Dean says softly, pulling him upright and offering him a napkin. He takes it, wiping his mouth and smiling painfully.  
   
Cas scrabbles at him, looping an arm around his neck, and they turn around to find the blond ticket seller standing with her hands on her hips, glaring at them.  
   
“Oops,” Cas stammers.  
   
“We were just leaving,” Dean says, smiling cockily, taking Cas’s hand and running past her, Cas stumbling along behind, still dazed.  
   
Their feet clatter on the pavement as they flee from the hockey rink, laughing, running back into the heart of the park and hurling themselves from the path into the grass. They lay there, in the rich smell of soil, the faint whisper of wind in leaves harmonizing above them, as their breathing evens out. Cas turns onto his side, curling in on himself. Dean turns to look at him, the smile starting in his eyes and it makes Castiel’s breath catch, his hand raising to rest on Dean’s cheek. The air thickens and Cas isn’t sure who moves closer, but he’s the one who pulls away.  
   
“Cas.”  
   
“Dean.”  
   
Dean reaches over Cas and picks up a piece of folded paper lying in the grass. Cas begins to say, “That’s mine” as Dean unfolds it.  
   
“What’s this?” he asks, eyes clouded, and Cas averts his eyes nervously.  
   
“‘Shut the fuck up and be normal,’” Dean reads, brows furrowing as he looks back up at him. “Cas.”  
   
“My father said it. It’s a…reminder…for when I’m having a bad day.”  
   
Dean bites his lip, looks away from Cas, and looks back.  
   
“Why?”  
   
Cas shrugs and pulls the paper from Dean’s grasp, holding it close to himself and refusing to look at him.  
   
“Cas, look at me,” Dean says and Cas does, because he owes him that much. “Why would your dad say that?” he asks sternly and Cas’s eyes dart away.  
   
“The Lord erred when he created me. It’s the reason my mom left.”  
   
“What does that mean?”  
   
“I’m always sad and I don’t like sex and I like you.”  
   
“That’s all fine,” Dean tells him and Cas tries not to roll his eyes because he wishes it were true.  
   
“No, it’s not. How do I take care of my family if I can’t take care of myself?”  
   
“You take care of yourself.”  
   
Cas sighs because it would be fucking great if everything were that simple. “Then who takes care of them?”  
   
Dean frames Cas’s face with his hands and kisses him, lips careful in their pull on Castiel’s.  
   
“Not you. You’re– You’re the best person I’ve ever met, Cas, you’re my favorite person and just—call me when you’re having a bad day, okay? Because this—” He takes the paper back from Cas and crumples it. “—This is bullshit.” He pulls a pen and a post-it pad from his pocket and scribbles a message. He tears it off and hands it to Cas: _You’re my favorite person_.  
   
 Cas doesn’t know what he’s doing but there’s a warmth in his chest, a tightly wound affection tugging on his heart, a purposeless _impulse_ , and he pecks Dean on the lips before he knows what he’s doing, the impulse drowning out his fear of closeness.  
   
He watches Dean for a moment, both of them still startled at the others existence, before Cas asks, “Can you do handstands?”  
   
Dean looks at him in confusion before Cas gets to his feet, arms whipping out to steady himself before diving at the ground, palms pressing into the dirt, grasping at blades of grass, kicking his legs up to waver above his head. His feet flail for a moment and he lifts his chin to grin at Dean, upside down, before he teeters and falls heavily on his side, laughing.  
   
“I’m pretty shit at them,” he says, sitting up and running his fingers through his hair, turning to Dean. “How about you?”  
   
Dean stares at him for a moment before getting to his feet and flinging himself at the ground. His legs go up before swinging over his head, bringing him crashing onto his back, where he lays, winded for a moment. Cas leans over him, concerned, but Dean laughs and sits up.  
   
Their heads spin each time they kick off the ground, tottering for a few seconds before falling, screaming in the minute of weightlessness before laughing hysterically.  
   
When Cas is sure he’s going to throw up again he lies on his back, arms and legs splayed, chest heaving towards the sky. Dean flops down beside him and they both turn to watch the other, grinning.  
   
“I think I’m sober enough to go home,” Dean says, climbing to his feet and offering a hand to Cas, who nods and takes it, getting up as well. Dean pulls Cas to his feet and holds him there for a moment, a hand on his hip, the other around his wrist. He lifts Cas’s wrist to his lips, kissing the pulse tenderly, saying nothing about the singular scar there, which Cas is thankful for. He keeps his eyes locked on Cas, letting his hand drop.  
   
“I’ll call you.” Cas’s mouth is suddenly dry and he swallows, seeking a distraction. “When I’m having a bad day.”  
   
“Promise?”  
   
Cas nods.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
On the drive back home, Cas pulls his knees up to his chest, resting his arm on the side of the door, marveling at all the _green_ blurring by outside the window, trees and grass turning into one and he inhales deeply, appreciating the thick _growing_ smell.  
   
Cas can feel his heart in his chest, not beating particularly quickly, but beating heavily, almost _swollen_ , and each breath feels laden with wishes, bright and flickering as fireflies. He wonders how it works, this multitude of senses, abstract yet still more constant than anything else. He wonders how they can exist when he obviously wasn’t made to feel them. Maybe other people, but not him. His bones are too light and his soul too fragile.  
   
They swing around a bend and come out on a ridge, with a forest on either side, and past the trees, the expanse of a lake, sparkling and blue. It darts in and out as they race by and Cas nudges Dean, pointing, who looks out the window and grins.  
   
“Let’s stop,” Cas says, and Dean nods, pulling over at a turn-off. “I always see things when I’m driving, and wish I could see them up close, but I never do. I never stop the car, and I always regret it.”  
   
Dean is looking at him again and Cas knots his fingers together and glances down at them, scooting away slightly.  
   
“I’m going to kiss you,” Dean says suddenly, and Cas’s neck nearly breaks he whips his head up so fast. “Is that okay?”  
   
Cas is screaming _NO NO NO NO (Why_ not _?)_ in his head, but just nods slightly, bracing himself as Dean leans across the stick shift, one arm circling around his back, the other cupping his face. He wastes no time in running his tongue across Castiel’s lips, tugging with his teeth, pushing him against the door and Cas closes his eyes because that’s what you’re _supposed to do_ this is what he’s _supposed to do_ and he tries to pave a road for Dean and for himself, plot a path that he can follow and lean back and enjoy the ride as Dean shifts and kisses his way down Cas’s neck, softly and carefully like it _matters_ and Cas won’t fuck it up this time, he swears. He pulls Dean up again, refusing to look at him, and brings their lips crashing together, biting and nipping and fingers teasing beneath the hem of his t-shirt and Dean groans as Cas’s nails scrape against his stomach. Cas feels the sound rumble out of Dean’s throat and into his mouth like bile and there’s bile in his throat and Dean is too close, pressed against him, hips pushing forward and both of them might be hard but he can’t really tell because there’s a heavy heat pressing against his head and he can barely breathe— He fumbles with the lock behind him, the door swinging open and Cas clambering out, staggering across the gravel to collapse, head between his knees, trying to stop his gasping breaths.  
   
The gravel crunches as Dean climbs out of the car and crouches beside him. He doesn’t touch him and Cas it thankful for that, licking his lips with each breath, scrunching his eyes shut and balling his fists.  
   
“I think my heart is giving out. I think I am having an honest to God heart attack,” he stammers, focusing on one piece of white gravel amongst all the gray stones. It seems to help and his head stops spinning. He becomes aware of Dean’s hand rubbing slow circles on his back and bucks forward, retching. He doesn’t vomit, and he’s thankful for that, because two times in one day is too many, and Dean just grips his shoulder and squeezes comfortingly.  
   
Dean kisses the top of his head as Cas’s breathing evens out and Cas wonders if something is wrong with both of them— Dean for wanting him and Cas for not wanting Dean.  
   
“I’m sorry,” he says miserably, pushing himself to his feet.  
   
Dean looks up at him. “Don’t be. You okay?”  
   
Cas nods and gets back into the car. Dean follows, starting the engine up without a word.  
   
“May we listen to music?” Cas asks as they pull back onto the freeway and Dean nods, turning the radio up.  
   
Dean takes Cas’s hand and gives it a squeeze and Cas squeezes back, and hates that it’s as close to kissing as he can get without having a panic attack.  
   
 _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ “If we were a band, we’d always sound like we were warming up,” he says thoughtfully; a flock of white birds take off from a tree, disturbed, blooming against the pale blue of the sky.  
   
“That’s because we are,” Dean laughs, and there’s none of the bitterness Cas has come to expect from Dean in response to his own bullshit. It’s an open-ended reply, full of hope, and Cas wonders why their entire relationship is destined to be beginnings.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Castiel glides through Monday in a daze and thinks it might be happiness and that it also makes him slightly nauseous. He’s just deciding he might rather be sad so he can at least keep a straight head when Jo flings an arm around his shoulder and leers at him suggestively.  
   
“Someone has the _I had a weekend of good fucking_ look,” she grins, and Castiel feels himself instantly color.  
   
“I did not copulate this weekend,” he sighs, stopping beside his locker and spinning his combination.  
   
“Come _on_ , you don’t need to bullshit me, Cas,” Jo wheedles and Cas rolls his eyes before slamming his locker shut and turning to Jo.  
   
“I assure you, there has been no sexual intercourse between Dean and I.”  
   
Jo opens her mouth in a question, but at Castiel’s dour expression, she closes it. They spend the rest of the day in a playful back and forth regarding Castiel’s alleged promiscuity, Jo giggling and Cas sighing the entire time.  
   
Cas is walking to the bus stop and untangling his earbuds when he hears a honk behind him. He turns around as the Impala pulls up to the curb, the window rolling down. He approaches the car, smiling as Dean’s grinning face comes into view, and it’s the nicest thing he’s ever seen.  
   
He slides into the passenger seat and there’s no other way he can describe the golden hue of the sunlight spilling through the windows, warming the leather seat and Dean’s jacket, turning the tips of his hair a glowing amber color:  _nice_.  
   
“Hey,” Dean says, smiling warmly.  
   
“Hello.”  
   
 “I brought you tea. Peach and chamomile, your favorite.”  
   
Cas blinks stupidly at the paper cup in the cup holder for a minute. “I never told you my favorite—”  
   
“I know.”  
   
Cas takes the cup and sips it tentatively. His eyes widen at the sweetness because he always tells people he doesn’t take sugar.  
   
“It’s sweet,” is all he says, and Dean laughs.  
   
“Yeah. You don’t honestly expect me to believe that _you_ drink black tea. Look at your brother.”  
   
Cas shakes his head in amazement and sets the cup back down. “If we weren’t so familiar I would say you’re my stalker.”  
   
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be both,” Dean winks cheekily and Cas lets out a huff of laughter so genuine it surprises even himself.  
   
“Do you want to come over?” Cas asks as they pull up outside his house. Dean looks at him disbelievingly for a minute before quickly shifting into park and climbing out, waiting for Cas to gather up his things and get his keys from his bag.  
   
They stand in the entryway of the house awkwardly for a moment, the house still and dust-laden, warm and slightly on the stuffy side, before Dean coughs uncomfortably.  
   
“So…”  
             
“It’s empty. My father is…away,” Cas supplies and ignores the way Dean’s eyebrows raise slightly.  
   
“Don’t you have a brother?”  
   
“God only knows where he is. He might be in later this week, I never know with Gabe.” Cas toes his shoes off and drops his bag on top of them, stretching to give himself something to do. “This is the part where we start making out, isn’t it?”  
   
“Typically, yeah.”  
   
They stumble upstairs on the proposition of _Let’s try_ , closing the door despite the house being empty, and falling on the bed. Cas pushes forward, unsure what to do with himself, Dean fumbling in his excitement, tangling his hands in Cas’s hair. Cas lets Dean push him onto the bed, suddenly aware of the sound their spit-slick lips make against each other. He waits a moment before he pushes him off, sitting up and scooting to the edge of the bed, tugging his shirt down.  
   
“S-Sorry,” he stammers.  
   
Dean says nothing and Cas expects this is when he storms out, already tired of them.  
   
“I want us to work. More than anything. When I think about you, Dean, I want to be close to you. I want you to kiss me and I want us to sleep together in the figurative and literal sense, but my body just fucking _won’t_ , I mean, it _can’t_ because I don’t like touching people and I don’t like them being close to me because it’s fucking pointless because they just leave anyway.” Cas kicks himself inwardly because he didn’t mean to say so much because it isn’t his job to talk it’s his job to listen and do what he’s told.  
   
“We’ll try, Cas, okay? I’m trying. I didn’t expect to be…gay—”  
   
“—Bi—”  
   
“—whatever, but I am and you didn’t expect to be—” Dean gestures vaguely. “—whatever you are, but you are.”  
   
“I’m sorry.”  
   
“What I mean is, baby steps.”  
   
Cas turns to look at Dean, who scoots forward at the gesture. “Baby steps?” he asks.  
   
Dean nods. “Not all at once. Little things. Little kisses.”  
   
Cas smiles weakly. “Little kisses.”  
   
Dean leans forward, pecking his lips, eyes sparking. “Like that.”  
   
“I can do that.”  
   
“Good to know.” Dean hesitates. “So I’ve known you forever but I know nothing about you.”  
   
Cas cocks his head to the side. “Interesting. Because you seem to know what my favorite kind of tea is and how much sugar I take and what my bus route is—”  
   
“—And the fact that your listen to indie British music and you have a brother named Gabriel and your favorite color is yellow but people always assume it’s blue and you like sushi and apricots but not peaches even though it’s your favorite type of tea and your favorite class is history and you like sitting in the church because it’s quiet but you don’t really believe in God even though your dad wants you to.”  
   
Cas blinks at Dean stupidly because he’s sure he could go on and Cas has no idea where he learned all this because he sure as hell doesn’t know as much about Dean.  
   
“I pay attention,” Dean says sheepishly under Cas’s scrutiny. Cas tentatively tilts his head and catches Dean’s lips, letting them rest warm against his own.  
   
“Baby steps,” he says, and Dean laughs. The sound catches as Cas slides his hand under Dean’s shirt, resting his palm, dry and warm against his chest, over his heart. He closes his eyes, feeling the beat beneath his fingers, opening them at the feeling of Dean’s hand sliding up his chest and doing the same.  
   
They sit there for a long while, feeling each other beneath their skin, the rise and fall, the expansion and contraction of their ribs, the careful palpitations of their hearts and Cas thinks about how all beats ultimately sound the same.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Cas nearly falls down the stairs when he catches sight of his brother sitting at the kitchen table, shoving large spoonfuls of fruit loops into his mouth as he skims a copy of _Casa Erotica: The Magazine_. He looks up at the sound of Cas scrambling on the landing and calls out, “Good morning, Cassy.”  
   
“What are you doing here, Gabe?” Cas grumbles, rifling through the cabinets for a bowl. He’s glad he’s not the only one in the house anymore, but he says nothing, just sighs loudly and pulls a bowl from the sink, dumping out the dirty water and rinsing it.  
   
“You shouldn’t sigh so much, you’ll wear out your lungs.”  
   
“You shouldn’t eat so much sugar, you’ll get diabetes,” Cas retorts, sitting across from his brother and pouring himself a bowl of fruit loops.  
   
“Diabetes, Dia-schmetes,” Gabe drawls, refilling his bowl and quirking an eyebrow at Cas suggestively.  
   
“What?”  
   
“It’s about time my little brother started getting some ass. So who are you fucking?”  
   
Cas’s face grows hot and he focuses on the dye drifting off of his cereal and into the milk. “No one.”  
   
“Then why do you have a hickey?”  
   
“It was an accident.” Cas stabs his spoon into his bowl and shoves as much into his mouth as he can, chewing aggressively.  
   
“A guy accidentally sucked on your neck, lame-ass?”  
   
“How do you know it’s a guy, assbutt?”  
   
“Oh, so then I guess you just went to an aquarium and an octopus jumped out of the tank and hung onto your neck by one tentacle?”  
   
Cas sighs dramatically, just to bother his brother because he knows Gabe hates sighing. “That’s idiotic.”  
   
“So is accidentally getting a hickey.”  
   
Cas knows he’s beat and rolls his eyes at his brother. “I think Dean was attempting to be romantic.”  
   
Gabe practically does a spit take, eyes bulging and milk dribbling out of his mouth as he hacks into his sleeve. “Jesus fucking Judas in a rainstorm you’re not fucking Dean Winchester!”  
   
“I’m not fucking anyone, Gabe!”  
   
“You’ve been hung up on that boy since you were ten and we were having barbecues at their house. He likes you back, no way in hell you’re not going at it like rabbits.”  
   
Cas glares at Gabe. “You know I don’t...”  
   
Gabe shrugs loosely. “Guess I thought Dean-o might be special.”  
   
“He is.”  
   
Gabe gives him a hard look before pushing back from the table and letting out a long breath.  
   
“I thought you hated sighing,” Cas says sarcastically, because his brother’s not the only one who can be a dick.  
   
“That wasn’t a sigh, Cassy. That was an _exhale_.”  
   
Cas rolls his eyes and Gabe gets to his feet.  
   
“Now get out of here, I have some friends coming over.”  
   
“Gross,” Cas says, adding his bowl to the precarious stack in the sink. “At least do the dishes,” he adds, leaving the kitchen.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
“So you know we’re going to be partners for the history project, right?” Jo yammers as Cas closes his locker and turns to her seriously.  
   
“Jo—”  
   
“And I _promise_ I want you for more than your crazy encyclopedia brain.” Jo makes doe-eyes at him as she steers him down the hall.  
   
“Jo—” Cas tries again.  
   
“And it will give us plenty of time to talk about your _boyfriend—_ ” She wiggles her eyebrows emphatically at the word and Cas is starting to think it’s definitely becoming a her being annoying thing.  
   
“Sorry, Jo, but I think I’ll be stealing your partner from you,” Dean laughs. Cas goes rigid as he slides an arm around his waist. He forces a smile when Dean looks at him curiously.  
   
“Now that’s just not fair,” Jo pouts, glaring at the two of them. “And I can’t get mad at you because you’re the school’s token adorable gay couple.”  
   
“We’re _what_?” Cas stammers and Dean just laughs.  
   
Jo shrugs. “Don’t ask me, I think you’re just two assholes who can’t keep it in their pants.”  
   
Cas glances at Dean, catching his eyes and smiling weakly. Dean returns the gesture, taking his hand and squeezing it.  
   
“Sorry, but no dice, Cas here has a fucking promise ring,” Dean jokes and Cas bites his lip to fight the urge to punch him in the face. He guesses this is what Jo means when she talks about hating your boyfriend as much as you like him.  
   
“I do not wear a promise ring,” Cas says sourly, breaking into a smile at Dean’s annoyed expression as he ruins the joke.  
   
Jo fake gags at them as the bell rings and the hallway erupts into motion.  
   
“That’s our cue for bio, Dean,” Jo says, and Dean raises a hand at Cas as Jo pulls him down the hall. Cas smiles at the gesture, turning around to walk in the other direction. He’s hunching his shoulders, retreating back into himself, when someone spins him around. He catches a glimpse of sun-flecked green eyes as Dean cups his face and presses his lips to Cas’s. Cas grins into it, all teeth, and feels Dean laugh against his lips as he tugs at the fabric of his jacket, pushing his tongue forward tentatively. Dean leans forward as he pulls back, eyes bright and leaving a startled Cas with a wink.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Cas wakes and the world is gray and the backs of his lids are red. There’s no sound but his heart and his breath panting in imitation. He shifts and tilts his head back with a gasp, biting down on his lip. His body is kindling and it’s screaming _Dean_ with every ragged breath. He fumbles with his phone, glaringly bright in the dark of his room, his skin prickling against the sheets.  
   
The rings are loud and garish and he presses his palm against his erection as he waits, feeling the hardness through the sheets and hissing at the almost stinging pleasure.  
   
“Cas?” Dean’s voice is groggy with sleep. “Cas, what the fuck?”  
   
“Dean, I think I am…aroused,” Cas grits out, because that _has_ to be it, a hungry, ugly thing in the pit of his stomach. From Dean’s sharp intake of breath he can tell right where the blood must be rushing and he scrunches his eyes closed because if he was hot and squirming in his skin before, the thought of Dean, skin sticking to his sheets, damp and—  
   
“What do you want me to do about it?” Dean’s voice is low and Cas knows he knows _exactly_ what Cas wants him to do about it. Cas himself isn’t quite sure what he wants other than to scream _Get over here and into my bed_ but instead he just breathes heavily over the line until Dean chuckles.  
   
“If I was there, Cas,” he begins. “God I’ve been waiting for this so long. I’d kiss you—”  
   
“You already do that,” Cas interrupts.  
   
Dean sighs in exasperation. “Just shut up, okay, Cas?”  
   
Cas nods before stammering, “Okay.”  
   
“Well I’d kiss you, okay? I’d start with your mouth and then move down your throat and your chest and god your chest, it’s pale, I bet, but you’d be blushing all the way down—” Cas kicks his sheets back, and lowers his hand as Dean continues, “—well, I’d suck your cock, Cas, take it all into my mouth and you’d go _crazy_.” Dean’s voice catches and Cas can hear the rustle of cloth and knows Dean must also be shifting his sheets and taking himself into hand. Cas mirrors the movement, not quite sure what to do since the problem had never come up before, shifting his grip awkwardly. He’s sure it should feel better than it does, if the sounds Dean is making on the other end of the line are anything to go by, but he just feels exposed, uncomfortable in his own bed, sweat cooling on his skin, making him feel salty and chilled.  
   
“God, Cas,” Dean groans and Cas just listens to the sticking sounds of flesh and feels slightly nauseous at Dean’s litany of praise for his own imagination. “I’d let you fuck my mouth, Cas, and you would, and I’d barely be able to take it, but you’re so—” he breaks off in a groan and Cas can tell he’s just come from the stillness across the line.  
   
He listens to Dean’s breathing even out as his own cock softens, and he wishes his own muffled yelp of a climax had accompanied Dean. He wonders if he makes noise during sex; he wouldn’t know.  
   
“You didn’t even fucking touch yourself, did you?” Dean asks suddenly and Cas focuses on the smooth plaster of his ceiling above him.  
   
“I started—”  
   
“But you didn’t finish. Finishing’s the whole point, Cas.”  
   
“Dean—”  
   
“You know what, forget it, okay?”  
   
“Dean!”  
   
“What! You’re supposed to be turned on too! You’re supposed to like me and like thinking about me—”  
   
“I do—”  
   
“You’re supposed to like thinking about me naked and sucking your fucking cock, okay? Not just holding your hand and driving you to school or whatever the fuck made you decide you like me. I get it, okay, you’re not interested, you’re _whatever you are_ and I’m obviously not enough.”  
   
“Dean, you’re more than—”  
   
“I don’t want to hear it. I hate how I feel when I’m around you. I want you so much and you don’t want anything.”  
   
            “Dean!” Cas begs once again, but there’s no response over the closed silence of the phone line.  
   
He doesn’t want to cry, because the whole thing probably happened in ten minutes, but he pulls up his blankets and buries his face in his pillow, wrapping his arms around himself. He wants Dean in bed with him, holding him, running his hands through his hair. He wants to be alone and run as fast as he possibly can along the side of the road. He wants his mom smiling in the kitchen when he wakes up. He wants Gabe to do more than make shitty jokes and he has no fucking idea what he wants except that it’s not _this_.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
He wakes up to a box of chocolate bouncing off his head and groans angrily, pulling his blankets up to his ears.  
   
“Get up Cassie, it’s been two days and it’s time to eat some chocolate and call your boyfriend,” Gabe says sharply from the doorway.  
   
“Fuck off. Don’t have a boyfriend,” Cas grumbles.  
   
“Enough bullshit, princess.” Gabe throws himself onto the bed, bouncing at the edge of the mattress. “Time to stop sulking.”  
   
“No.”  
   
“You are a strong independent black woman who doesn’t need a man to fulfill you.”  
   
Cas rolls over and glares at Gabe. “No.”  
   
“Come on,” Gabe wheedles, unwrapping the box and offering a chocolate to Cas after he takes one for himself.  
   
“No.” Cas knows he’s being pouty and petulant, but he has a right to be, he tells himself. “I’ll sulk as long as I want to. It’s what I do.”  
   
“Eat some chocolate and get over yourself,” Gabe says one more time, throwing the box at him so the chocolates spill across the bed.  
   
He gives Cas one more demanding glare and leaves.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Cas goes downstairs in the afternoon, showered and expecting eggs since Gabe always makes him eggs when he’s upset. He finds nothing.  
   
“Did you call Dean?” Gabe asks coldly and Cas rolls his eyes.  
   
“That’s my business, he’s not your—”  
   
“Well you’re _my_ brother and I want you to be happy, so it is my business.”  
   
Cas’s jaw practically falls open. “Pardon?”  
   
“Cut the bullshit, Castiel, I’m tired of it,” Gabe snaps, getting to his feet and facing Cas across the table.  
   
“My issues aren’t bullshi—”  
   
“Yes, they are.”  
   
Cas makes an indignant noise, but Gabe plows on.  
   
“People hurt, okay, I get it! We hate rejection and hey, better to have never loved than to have loved and lost, right? No! The quote is the other way around for a reason, and you’re missing it—”  
   
“I’m not missing anything! I don’t—”  
   
“You don’t what? You don’t like sex? You don’t like people? You like _Dean_ , Cas, and you’ve never been able to hide it, and you’re wasting both of your time with your _pity me, I’m broken_ crap!”  
   
“I—”  
   
“You what? You’re scared? Mom left and now you won’t let anyone else in to give them that chance? Well I loved her too. I miss her too, Cas! I get it, but she’s not coming back and you can’t waste your entire life hurting about it!”  
   
Cas opens his mouth to reply and stares at Gabe in shock as a sob breaks through. Gabe watches him sadly as he collapses, no longer angry. He walks around the table, slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls a chair out for him, pushing him to sit as he perches on the edge of the table. Cas wipes his hand with the back of his nose and sniffles, looking up at his brother. There’s tears drying on Gabe’s cheeks as well and Cas laughs hoarsely at the sight. Gabe starts chuckling too and ruffles Cas’s hair.  
   
“Hey there, baby bro.”  
   
Cas looks away and back, smiling. “Hi, Gabe.”  
   
“You’re a weird kid, anyone ever told you that?”  
   
Cas nods. “All the time.”  
   
“But you’re a good one. So stop fucking up, got it?”  
   
Cas nods again, wishing it were that easy and telling himself that maybe it _is_.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Cas hasn’t slept in two days and he hasn’t done much besides stare at his wall either. He’s been tracing Dean’s face onto the plaster with his eyes and he surprises himself with how much he’s memorized: freckles, lashes, the slight asymmetry of his eyes when he smiles, his one crooked bottom tooth. He wants to forget the details and then the lines and let it all fade away. Dean hasn’t called him, but he hasn’t called Dean either. He takes what he said and what Dean said and turns things around in his head and tries to understand, to see things in a “different light,” as people like his brother seem to say. He hates the way movement travels all the way down to his fingertips before freezing in his veins and the way words tangle around his teeth on their way out and he hates so many things and he hates Dean but all he sees when he closes his eyes are a pair of green ones staring back at him, a freckle visible on one eyelid as they blink. His eyes tear up, and suddenly he’s crying again. He’s not crying for Dean but he’s not crying for anyone else either. He’s crying for something he’s been looking for forever that he thought Dean might give him.  
   
There’s a creak of cracked floorboards in the hall and his phone starts ringing. He extends a shaky hand towards it, squeezing it tightly before lifting it to his ear.  
            “Where are you?”  
   
“Why do you care?” Cas replies defensively, his voice wrung out and tired.  
   
“Cause I’m—” Dean coughs as if the words are rough in his throat. “—Cause I’m your boyfriend.”  
   
“I thought we broke up,” Cas says sullenly, knowing how stupid he sounds as the words leave his mouth.  
   
“What?” Dean sounds incredulous.  
   
“We had a fight.” Cas squeezes his eyes shut at the words, the realization that Dean in his pure _Deanness_ , his careless, bright-green-loose-smile-tight-shoulders –ness is no longer his—  
   
“Cas—” There’s a creak in the hallway again and his door opens and Dean is standing there, clutching his phone and looking panicked. Cas hears footsteps retreating and sighs, realizing Gabe must have just pushed Dean into his room and run off.  
   
Cas stares at Dean stupidly for a long moment, slowly drawing his body in on itself before Dean rushes across the room, gripping his shoulders and kissing him square on the mouth, just for the contact, nothing else. He pulls back, eyes bright and sparking seriousness, running over Cas’s face as if desperate to take him in, as if preparing for never seeing him again.  
   
“I’m sorry I was an asshole,” he says bluntly and Cas can’t help but smile at him in disbelief, at the tangibility of his cherished _Deanness_.  
   
He bites his lip and brings his eyes up to Dean’s. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get off,” he says.  
   
Dean laughs fragilely at that, kissing Cas again, softly enough that Cas can push him off. He doesn’t. He lets Dean claim his mouth, one hand wrapping around his back and pushing him onto the bed, careful in his touches. Cas closes his eyes, feeling weightless for a moment, despite Dean’s own weight pressing down on him. Dean pulls off and lies down beside Cas, kicking his shoes off. When Cas scoots closer, curving towards Dean’s body like a question mark, he answers, carefully slipping beneath the covers, wrapping himself around Cas, pressing his face into his hair and breathing deeply. Cas never thought much of the sense of _smell_ when it came to intimacy, but as Dean’s warm-leather-Impala smell creeps into his own nest of Casness, he begins to understand.  
   
“Don’t do that again,” Dean sighs against his neck. “Didn’t know what I was going to do without your annoying ass around.”  
   
“I wish I could,” Cas says quietly.  
   
“Wish you cold what?”  
   
“Get off. Get you off. You know…nice stuff.”  
   
Dean’s lips shift into a smile against his ear as he twines his fingers with Cas’s. “Don’t worry. We’re working up to it.”  
   
Cas wishes those words were enough, but Dean keeps telling him them and he is tired of hearing it. He wants something to _happen_ , things to change. He wants to get to know Dean, to be with him, before Dean gets tired and moves on to more brilliant, fantastic people— easier people. “How long will it take?” He wants to cry again, in a bittersweet, happy-sad way like a July rainfall.  
   
Dean kisses Cas where his neck meets his shoulder and Cas closes his eyes, a sense of _okay_ engulfing him. Things are _okay_ , and that’s _nice_. “As long as it takes,” Dean murmurs. “I’ll wait.”  
   
“Really?” Cas still doesn’t open his eyes. The question is genuine, but he’s too swaddled in warmth and wellbeing and _Dean_ to be alarmed by it.  
   
Dean nods against him. “Yeah.”  
   
“Really really?”  
   
“Yes, really really,” Dean smiles.  
   
“Thank you.”  
   
Dean doesn’t answer and if they were anywhere else Cas would kick himself for the formality of the words.  
   
“I’m sad all the time,” he continues. “I don’t know why, but when I’m with you it’s okay—”  
   
“I want to eat up all your sadness.”  
   
“—I mean I’m still sad but it’s a good kind of sad, like how you always press on a bruise even though it aches when you do.” He pauses, thinking. “Being sad sucks less when you’re around.”  
   
Dean chuckles, his voice teasing. “So I’m a bruise now?”  
   
“I guess so. But a good kind of bruise. An unusually colored one.”  
   
Dean laughs into his hair, stirring the dark strands. “I guess fair’s fair. I’m always horny, and I guess it’s because I’m a teenage boy or something, but I swear I wasn’t this horny until I met you.” He presses a kiss behind Castiel’s ear. “Being horny sucks more when you’re around, cause I can’t do anything about it.”  
   
“Sorry.”  
   
“It’s okay.”  
   
“I’m still sorry.”  
   
They lie there for a few moments, Dean’s chest rising on each inhale, pressing against Castiel’s back. He pours all his energy into the sensation, into the points of warmth where Dean’s toes press against his calves, where their fingers link, the skitter of Dean’s breath against his cheek and neck.  
   
Dean sighs softly, a mixture of frustration and contentedness, “I think I’m in love with you.”  
   
Castiel just turns to press himself against Dean chest-to-chest, wrapping his arms around his neck and burying his face in its crook, biting his lip as tears fall and catch in the hollow of Dean’s collarbone. He says nothing, arms encircling Cas’s waist, fingers tracing lightly up his sides, lips soft against his forehead, kissing him over his long hair.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Castiel stretches out into the empty space in his bed, pushing the sheets back and yawning. He feels rested, his brain and bones sharp and alert beneath his skin. He shakes his head and sits up. The space beside him is still warm, so he gets to his feet and goes downstairs, searching for Dean.  
   
Dean is sitting at the kitchen table with Gabe, their heads bowed in conversation. Cas kicks himself internally. He should have planned against this, because if there’s one thing he doesn’t want, it’s his boyfriend and his… _outgoing_ older brother together in the same room. Gabe has a full plate of toast, eggs, and bacon before him. Dean has a cup of coffee.  
   
Cas bites his lip as he smiles, crossing the hallway and entering the kitchen. Dean immediately stops talking and looks up at Castiel, a slow smile spreading across his face. Gabe rolls his eyes and pushes away from the table. He gets to his feet and gives each of them a long, hard look. Cas’s heart is hammering in his chest _Please don’t say anything Please don’t say anything Please keep your big sassy mouth shut._ Gabe leaves without a word and he must visibly relax because Dean gets up as well. He takes a sip of his coffee and looks at him seriously.  
   
“We’re going on an adventure.”  
   
“But school—” Cas begins. _But what?_  
   
“Fuck school.” Dean grins, setting the mug down on the table firmly.  
   
“Okay,” Cas says, unconditionally.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
They drive along the same road they took to the city, a tire-faded gray strip winding through farmlands and forests. Cows lift their heads listlessly as the Impala roars by, tearing up the countryside silence. Cas finds Dean’s hand and clutches it tightly as he looks out the window. Dean squeezes his fingers and Cas turns to watch him, his fingers tapping lightly on the wheel, lips pressed together and Cas smiles because he knows he’s humming in his head.  
   
He wants to be _here_ and nowhere else. His eternal sadness, his multitudes of longing, are stayed in the moment and he watches Dean blink and slowly look at him, grinning. He’s made of sunlight and as Cas watches him, green and gold, he has never felt heavier. He’s falling, and he scrunches his eyes closed for a moment, fighting it. Dean’s thumb presses against his wrist, over his pulse and Cas forces himself to look at him.  
   
“You still with me?”  
   
Cas nods and fights the urge to say, _always_ , because nothing is _always_ and he of all people should know that.  
   
Dean swerves to the side of the road and puts the Impala in park, moving to unbuckle his seatbelt.  
   
“Wait! What are you doing?” Cas starts and turns to Dean.  
   
Dean just smiles. “You said you never stop when you see things you like on the side of the road. I don’t either.”  
   
Cas looks at him in confusion, brow furrowed, head cocked slightly to the side.  
   
“Come on, Puppystiel, it’s an adventure,” Dean laughs, leaning forward to peck Cas on the lips. Cas flinches and Dean pulls away, eyes closed off and Cas kicks himself inwardly. _Shut the fuck up and be normal. Shut the fuck up and be— **You’re my favorite person.**_ He unbuckles his belt and slides out of the car, walking around the front to meet Dean by the driver’s side door as he locks it.  
   
Dean climbs over the fence first, turning and catching Cas by his hands and then pulling him down into his arms as he vaults over the top with a small yelp. They stand for a moment, Cas against the fence, his arms on Dean’s biceps. Dean leans forward, head tilting slightly and Castiel has a sharp intake of breath, toes curling in his shoes. Dean takes a step back and offers his hand to Cas, who takes it, moving to interlock their fingers. Dean gives a tug on his arm, testing to see if Cas lets go. He doesn’t. He holds on tighter and lets Dean pull him between the trees, tramping down ferns and grass to blaze a path. There’s a loud crash of snapping underbrush as a pair of deer leap out of the way ahead of them and Dean turns to look at a startled, wide-eyed Cas, beaming.  
   
They push through the trees until they’re bracketed in by the green of the trees and the blue, bird-speckled sky above them. Their gazes catching onto each other as they crane their necks up and around. They’re two boys, Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak, two boys slightly worse for the wear, learning to _be_ in the space they’ve fallen into.  
   
Dean turns to Cas seriously. “There is nowhere I’d rather be,” he says. A bird takes flight with a screech that echoes through the woods. Cas shivers as goose bumps erupt along his spine.  
   
They break through the trees and reach a pebbly beach, running down several feet to a dark and sparkling lake. The sun shifts and Cas sees large stones and flurries of fish beneath the surface. He turns as and looks away as Dean strips off his shirt and pants, tossing them on top of his boots. He looks at Cas and laughs.  
   
“My socks are still on.” And he looks so uncomfortable at the realization Cas laughs too and Dean’s eyes and smile go soft in a way that makes Cas want to look away. He doesn’t, watching Dean as he bends over and pulls off his socks. Dean looks up and smirks.  
   
“Like what you see?” he teases.  
   
“Maybe,” Cas answers, and maybe he does.  
   
Dean takes a few steps forward until the water covers his feet before looking back.  
   
“Well come on then.”  
   
Castiel blinks at him before slowly peeling his clothing off, looking down at the white and gray pebbles. He flushes as Dean watches him unashamedly. He hunches his shoulders as he tosses his shirt down and the sun beats down on his back.  
   
Dean wades in up to his chest and Cas follows, shivering slightly as the cold pierces his skin, the sun hot on the top of his head. Dean moves closer to him and he feels his warmth through the water. He pushes away, diving beneath the surface and swimming out until his feet can’t reach the bottom. Castiel treads water there, Dean bobbing in and out of sight, teeth clattering in a wide grin. Dean swims out to meet him and they kick each other playfully, nails scratching ankles and calves like small fish bites.  
   
Cas scrabbles at Dean as Dean wraps his arms around him and they sink below the surface for a moment. Cas’s hair drifts in the dark, brushing against Dean’s cheek and the sunlight wavers down like ethereal hands, grasping them in golden beams. Castiel forces his eyes open and the world is blurry like right when he wakes up. His lungs burn from something besides a lack of oxygen. It bruises his lungs and cracks his ribs as it struggles through his heart chambers. Dean’s drifted off and he’s alone in the water— a pallid, icy thing amongst the liquid shadows. He’s sinking and drifting, cut loose in empty space. His lungs are full of flame now, his ribs kindling for the fire, his heart the fuel and he kicks to the surface, erupting with a gasp and thrashing to the shore.  
   
The sun is bright and glaring and bleaching the world away. Everything is spinning as he trips over the pile of their clothes and sits on a stone, its surface rough and sharp against his bare legs. He threads his hands into his dripping hair and he can’t stop shivering because the water devoured all his warmth and now he’s just cold and lost and he’s wishing that someone would find him and use him as the foundation for their _home_. He would become the mortar between bricks, if he could.  
   
“Cas?”  
   
A shadow falls over him and he feels Dean’s hand on his shoulder. Castiel jerks away, hunching his shoulders and curling in on himself.  
   
“Go away!” he yelps, batting Dean’s hand off. Dean replaces it immediately. He grips his other shoulder and tries to turn Cas to face him.  
   
“I said go away, Dean!”  
   
“Cas!” Panic is starting to creep into his voice.  
   
“I don’t want you here!” Cas yells, too loud with Dean so close, getting up from the rock and stumbling on the pebbles, sensitive soles grating against them.  
   
A tinge of sharp hurt creeps into Dean’s expression as he stiffens slightly.  
   
“Just go away, please,” Cas begs, eyes brimming and he pushes a wet lock out of his face. He’s still shivering and he tries desperately to control it, clenching his fists against his sides. “Just...leave already…I’m tired of waiting for it.”  
   
Dean’s expression becomes limp and he steps forward, reaching for Castiel as he steps away. He grips his wrists and pulls him towards him and Castiel screams, pushing at his chest as he falls into it, pushing against the beat of Dean’s heart, howling from the burn of a wound he never let close.  
   
“I’m not going to leave you, Cas,” Dean says, so softly Castiel is sure he made it up  because he was born to be left.  
   
“Go away!” he screams.  
   
“I’m not going to leave you.” Dean holds him carefully, something already half broken that he wants to keep intact.  
   
“Liar!” is all he can say, the word sharp on the roof of his mouth, almost cutting him as he spits it out, pouring all of his faith into the sound.  
   
“I’m not going to leave you,” Dean says again, his voice so steady Cas is ready to believe him and hand him his heart while it beats but he just shakes his head, the lake water mixing with his tears, sticking to both of their skin.  
   
“They all do.”  
   
“I’m not them. They don’t love you like I love you.” And Cas shakes his head as he falls into Dean’s arms, his own heart hammering against Dean’s, bruising his ribs and his lungs, still burning, as his mouth stretches wide to let out years of sadness against Dean’s freckled skin. He cries and Dean whispers _I’m not going to leave you_ into every crevice of his being, every hiding place between his bones and becomes the foundation of a Home called _love_. As Castiel cries he says _They all do_ and for each time he says it, Dean repeats, far more steadfast than Castiel could ever believe someone to be _I’m not going to leave you_.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
The house is filled with silence, spreading through the rooms against their damp clothes, skin still wet beneath them. He guides Dean by the hand through the empty rooms with their echoing floors and up the stairs, where their footsteps sink into carpeting. Castiel pauses at the door to his room and opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. There’s a sepia tint on the two of them through the yellowed curtains, and the light emboldens him. It makes things beautiful, he thinks, as he cups the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him forward into a kiss. Dean loops his arms around his hips, fingers running along the waistband of his jeans.  
   
Cas pulls them both into his room and they stand in front of the window for a long moment, taking the other in. Castiel runs his hands down Dean’s arms and Dean leans forward to place a kiss on his nose, using the movement to push him towards the bed. Dean kisses him again, hands running up his side, holding him carefully as he runs his tongue along the seam of his lips. There is a moment where he feels Dean sigh against him and Castiel realizes he’s supposed to let him in. He does and is surprised at the sensation, but for the first time finds it pleasant, small shocks running down his body to his extremities. His pulse becomes loud under his skin as Dean pulls back and tugs his shirt over his head, stopping halfway to look at Cas for assurance. Cas nods dumbly and Dean strips the rest of the way, moving towards Cas and slipping his hands beneath his shirt, running over his stomach and chest. Cas watches them move beneath the cloth curiously before Dean tugs it over his head. He lifts his arms obediently, unable to suppress his smile when Dean kisses him again, the shirt bunched between them. He places his hands over Dean’s as Dean continues down his jaw and to his neck, tugging on the skin there lightly. He looks up at Cas from his collarbone and Cas smiles weakly, a flush of heat filling him as Dean sucks a red mark on the bone, keeping his eyes locked on Cas’s.  
   
Dean lowers him carefully on the bed and makes his way down the rest of his torso, smiling up from his navel as his fingers rest tentatively on Cas’s zipper and fly. His smile is easy and sensual but Cas can see the uncertainty in his eyes. He nods, again, because he can’t form words, his body so heavy with wanting. Dean obliges, undoing Cas’s pants and sliding them off his legs. Cas gasps when Dean’s hand brushes over his erection pushing against his boxers. He thinks that for two people who don’t have sex they sure spend a lot of time naked together. He tries to articulate this to Dean but is only able to stammer as Dean tugs his boxers off, pressing a kiss on the side of his knee before moving back up between his legs.  
   
He looks at Cas again, but Cas is unable to look at him, scrunching up his eyes and fisting his hands in the sheets, tilting his head towards the ceiling and focusing on the constellation of watermarks on the plaster. Dean places his hands on Castiel’s hips, breath ghosting over his sensitive cock and his breath hitches, hand shifting forwards involuntarily. Dean smiles and Cas feels it against his skin. He takes Cas’s hand and guides one to the side of his face, twining his fingers in the other and slowly taking his length into his mouth, tongue pressing against the underside and Cas’s head drops back, eyes fluttering shut. His breath is bruising in its rush to get out of him as Dean slowly bobs his head, giving Cas’s hand a squeeze. His fingers twine into Dean’s hair, nails scraping against his scalp. His mouth drops open as Dean presses his tongue against his slit, holding him still with his free hand on his hip.  
   
It’s quiet after that, just the subtle shifts of Dean’s mouth and his ragged breath, the two sounds running through the empty house with abandon. He begins to understand why people are so focused on _this_ as Dean increases the pressure of his lips, taking more of Cas into his mouth, thumb rubbing gentle circles over his hip bone. He wants to give Dean a floor plan, directions on how to start, how to hold him, but it seems like he already knows how. Cas is lost, in the bottomlessness of the emptiness of his house and he’s drowning in the darkness of the back of his lids. And Dean finds him every time he thinks he’s about to be lost so completely and terribly he’ll never be found again. Grips him and pulls him up and he sighs, lifting his hips slightly to meet Dean’s lips and this is definitely nothing bad although it is something to be a little scared of because “ _Oh_ ,” Castiel gasps as he comes and Dean laughs around him and he’s lost again, but Dean’s still with him, hands warm and eyes crinkling as Cas rides out the fall. Their hands are still linked as silence engulfs them like a scratchy wool blanket, Cas’s heart hammering to a standstill.  
   
Dean untangles their fingers and fetches his shirt from the pile beside his knees. He cleans them both up and crawls onto the bed beside Cas, pulling close and carefully pressing a hand against his arm, brushing their legs together. He lies on his side, watching Cas on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling, chest still heaving.  
   
“I think I’m in love with you too,” Cas says softly, almost a whisper, and Dean laughs just as softly, sliding closer to Cas and burrowing his face in his shoulder, slinging an arm over his side.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Dean is gone when he wakes up. Castiel presses his cheek against the wrinkled sheets, trying to gauge how long ago he left. His own warmth has permeated the entire bed, though, and he collapses against the mattress, the blood loud in his ears.  
   
He remembers waking up to Gabe yelling, and running through the house, socks slipping on the floor, yelling for anyone, anyone at all. And no one answering— Gabe kept yelling and his father sat on the sofa, the TV on mute, and his mother nowhere to be found. He’d started crying, and then screaming as well, and his father kept sitting and Gabe kept yelling and finally Castiel had gone back to his room and sat in his bed and waited for his mother to comfort him, and she never did, and he never asked why, and they never told him. And that was that.  
   
Cas sits up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands and pushing the blankets down to his waist. He’s yawning widely when Gabe barges in, fully dressed and groomed with over-gelled hair and a horrendous black and green diamond patterned shirt. Cas makes a face at his brother’s attire and pushes hair back from his face.  
   
“You need a haircut, Cassie. Unless you like giving Dean-o something to pull on,” he scoffs. Cas squeaks indignantly, but Gabe continues on, undeterred. “And congrats by the way, Mr. Winchester left this morning on a Walk of Victory.”  
   
“Excuse me?” Cas asks incredulously.  
   
“Don’t make me take a black light to your sheets,” Gabe warns, winking at his brother sassily.  
   
Cas shoots his brother a death glare to end all death glares, but Gabriel just grins. “Now get out, Balth is coming over.”  
   
“It’s my house too!” Cas protests, even as he slides out of bed and begins rummaging through the pile of clothes on the floor of his closet.  
   
“Just because you’re having gay sex now doesn’t mean I want you to hear me having gay sex.”  
   
Castiel rolls his eyes and begins changing into a pair of jeans, belting them low around his hips. Gabe whistles at the mess of his boxers and Cas flips him the finger, yanking his Mao shirt over his head (for Dean’s benefit, because he owes him as much, he supposes).  
   
“You smell like sex, by the way,” Gabe snaps and Cas smells himself unsurely before glaring at his brother.  
   
“I smell fine,” he says dryly, grabbing his phone and the car keys and slipping past his brother and out the door.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
He drives to Dean’s house and circles the block for fifteen minutes, seized by a sudden anxiety. He finally parks. He hasn’t been to Dean’s house since they became “Cas and Dean” and is unsure of how to enter. He ends up biting the bullet and knocking. Mary calls from inside that the door is unlocked and he lets himself in, standing in the foyer cautiously before weaving his way into the kitchen.  
   
“Hello, Mrs. Winchester,” he says nervously, hunching his shoulders and thrusting his hands into his pockets.  
   
“Oh, Castiel!” she exclaims, turning from the sink and beaming at Castiel. “It’s so nice to see you! It’s been such a long time, you’ve gotten so handsome.”  
   
Castiel blushes and mutters a thank you as Mary gives him a warm hug that leaves him taut with anxiety.  
   
“Dean’s room is upstairs, in case you don’t remember, third door on the left. He and Sam are watching TV, I think.”  
   
“Thank you,” Cas says, bowing his head slightly. He makes his way upstairs, floorboards squeaking beneath the carpet, his footsteps muffled. His house is all hardwood floors, and every room echoes when he walks, windows rattling in their loose, half-rotten frames.  
   
Cas pushes the door open, the muffled sounds of the TV audible through the wood.  
   
“Thanks for knock—” Dean begins to snap, his face immediately breaking into a grin when he sees Cas. Sam turns from his spot on the floor. He looks surprised to see him, but greets him happily before turning back to the bad 70s Kung Fu movie playing.  
   
Dean gets to his feet and crosses his room to Cas. Castiel notices the way Dean’s eyes rake over him, and the slight upward tilt of his lips. Familiar discomfort prickles in the pit of his stomach and he briefly wishes he’d worn sweats and his favorite hole-filled hoodie instead, but Dean would probably have still given him that look, since, as Dean likes to say, “It really doesn’t matter how you look, Cas, to me you’re sex on legs.” But Dean is looping his arms around his neck and kissing him, skipping the tentative tugs he usually uses and going straight in with the tongue, one hand hooking around his lower back, fingers playing beneath his t-shirt at the skin right above his waistband. For the first time the action pushes everything else out of his head and the heat filling his body is lower, harder, not sharp and suffocating. He must have moaned, because Dean pulls back, laughing, watching Cas smugly.  
   
He turns around at Sam’s shrill, incoherent babbling, arm still around Cas, who is blushing vividly.  
   
“Hello, Sam,” Cas says weakly. He gets only a blank, slack-jawed stare in response.  
   
Sam shifts his disbelief to Dean. “Dean, you’re _gay_?” he stammers.  
   
Dean shrugs casually. “Sometimes.” Dean nuzzles Cas’s ear and Cas snaps his head to furrow his brows at Dean because nuzzling is _not_ a Dean thing. Dean gives him a small smile, and Cas can’t help but rest his forehead against Dean’s cheek when he notices the faint tinge to his cheeks because Dean had also obviously noticed that was not a _Dean thing_. He recovers by turning to Sam and saying, “Get out Sammy, we’re going to have carnal sex now.”  
   
Sam gives Dean the bitchface to end all bitchfaces and turns back to the TV, stretching out his long, gangly legs.  
   
Dean flops back down on his bed, bouncing slightly as he lands. Cas bites his lip, still nervous that Dean might be serious about the whole carnal sex thing.  
   
“Come on, Cas, I was kidding,” Dean teases, patting the bed beside him. Cas climbs onto the bed and sidles close to Dean, aware that Sam is watching them with mild, observant interest.  
   
“Sammy, stop having a creepy hard-on for my boyfriend,” Dean laughs, pulling Cas closer to him and resting a head on his shoulder.  
   
Sam rolls his eyes and turns around again. “Say what you want but at least I’m not being the girl in the relationship.”  
   
Cas feels Dean bristle and he tenses in turn, ready for Dean to wrench away and throw up his macho exterior. To his surprise, he doesn’t, threading his fingers between Cas’s instead and craning his neck to press a kiss to his jaw. For a moment, Castiel can’t breathe; it’s like _tooclosetoomuchtoosoontoofast_ but the fluttering, like a butterfly in an abyss, is pleasant when he relaxes his suddenly tight muscles. He rides the feeling and realizes it is an overwhelming affection and disbelief that _You’re mine and I’m yours and you are Dean Winchester and you are giving me something you will never give anyone else and dropping all your macho bullshit_ and he lets that settle snugly in the bottom of his ribcage and pushes further and suddenly _HOLY SHIT_ so strong he almost says it out loud because fuck, he needs to kiss Dean _now_ and if this is how Dean feels all the time then how is he as calm as he is and Cas barely has time to gasp, “Sam you might want to vacate the room” before he’s pushing a startled Dean back onto the mattress, hands frantic at his belt buckle, mouth coming alive against his, like an animal.  
   
Dean yelps in surprise, a sound Cas promises will never leave the room, and twines his fingers into Cas’s hair and Gabe was right he likes giving Dean something to pull on, and for a minute he’s ready to let Dean replay yesterday, but it’s different than yesterday. His trust in Dean to lead and his willingness to follow is gone and it’s _his_ turn now. He fumbles with Dean’s belt, still uncoordinated between the kissing and the shedding clothes. Dean tries to take his shirt off and he lets him, balling it up and tossing it over his head before returning to his previous job, sliding his belt out of its loops and hastily unbuttoning and unzipping Dean’s jeans. He kicks them off, nearly catching Cas in the face, laughing disbelievingly as Cas wastes no time in tugging his boxers down and—  
   
“What are you— _OHMYGOD—_ ” Sam shrieks as he turns around, leaping to his feet and dashing into the hall, slamming the door behind him.  
   
“Cas, wait, he might—” Dean begins, but gives up when Cas locks his lips around his cock, taking down as much as he can and working his tongue carefully against the sensitive, swollen skin. Cas is surprised at the sensation, just like all the others, the sudden fullness in his mouth, the almost-choking, but it is not as unpleasant as he might think and when Dean moans at his touch, bucking his hips forward, Cas moans too, and half-gags as Dean pushes in more, stretching Cas’s mouth wide, pre-come and spit slicking his lips and dripping down his chin. Dean is babbling and Cas makes out words here and there, mostly _Cas_ and _fuck_ , but he soon gives up on any English and just groans, loud and guttural, the sounds muffled as he bites his lip.  
   
He moves his hand to cup Cas’s face, thumbing a finger over his jaw, the other firmly on the back of his head, fingers knotted in his hair. He lets out a low whimper and Cas pulls off, wide-eyed and concerned, “Dean?”  
   
“ _Cas_!” Dean begs, giving a gentle tug and Cas lets his head fall back, eyes rolling and he briefly wonders what it says about him if he gets off this much from getting someone else off, but he resumes eagerly, lips sucking and tongue pulling on the soft flesh of Dean’s cock. He fumbles with his own jeans, struggling to free himself from his boxers, but he’s distracted as Dean begins to thrust eagerly into his mouth, his entire body growing taut, and Cas’s eyes dart upwards to see his head dropped back, teeth clenched. His fingers tighten in his hair, pulling so hard it’s almost painful and Cas forgets his own erection in his urge to watch Dean, hands moving up to grab whatever he’s unable to hold in his mouth. He’s barely gotten a grip when Dean comes and no matter what pop culture has told him, Cas was not expecting the sudden rush of liquid. He reels back, sputtering slightly, and Dean’s come splashes over his shirt, some catching on his chin. They blink at each other dazedly for a moment before Dean grabs Cas by the shoulders and pulls him up, kissing him sloppily, tongue darting down to lick the come off Cas’s chin. He smiles against Cas’s lips at that, and Cas leans forward, straddling Dean’s hips and groaning as his erection finds friction.  
   
Dean slows their kisses enough to put himself away and a tinge of bitterness is already clouding Cas’s sex-high at the thought of returning home flustered and horny and not-receiving-of-an-orgasm, but then Dean’s hands are at his pants, opening them up with a level of practice that would send Cas reeling with anxiety at any other time, and then Dean’s hands are on his cock and while Cas will already say mouths are better this is somehow _more_ at the same time because Dean is alternating between kissing him, tongue writhing in Cas’s mouth against his own, and whispering small, mismatched phrases in his ear, tripping on the damp hairs sticking to his forehead. Cas wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, using him as an anchor as the pressure increases, the heat so great he wants to squirm out of his skin and then he’s yelling, a strangled cry that was supposed to be _Dean_ , but only sounds like that in his head, and he’s coming hard over Dean’s hand and Dean is laughing softly, kissing his forehead and his cheek and everywhere that isn’t his mouth (and that is so _right_ even though Cas has just learned why mouths are so great _together_ ).  
   
“You’re my favorite person,” Dean gasps as he begins to come down and the rasp in his voice adds a whole new meaning to the phrase.  
   
He moves to get up, but Cas clings to him and Dean sighs, settling back down and wrapping his arms around Cas.  
   
“Dude, this is going to be gross if we don’t get up.”  
   
Cas mumbles, trying to say _I don’t care_ , but every part of him is limp and all his brain can do is think _Dean Dean Dean ohmygod Dean_ so he snuggles closer instead, smiling.  
   
“Sammy’s probably crying right now.”  
   
Cas kisses him, although the action requires more energy than he thinks he has, half to shut him up and half to say _Fuck that was great_ (or _thank you_ ) and Dean kisses him back, also tired. Cas’s eyes slide shut and for once he isn’t worried about falling asleep because he is entirely certain that Dean will be there when he wakes up.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
            Cas disentangles himself from Dean later on, zipping up his pants and doing his best to straighten out his shirt. He flexes his fingers uncomfortably, making a noise of disgust at the dried come. Dean shifts and turns his head towards Cas, cracking an eye open. He peers at him for a moment, the green bright against the white sheets and his brown shirt.  
   
He smiles at Cas, slowly. “We’re a fucking mess, you know that right?”  
   
“And I love it,” Cas replies softly, kissing his forehead and getting to his feet.  
   
He’s still a little numb and a little shaky and he wishes he could always feel like this, made half of air. He opens his mouth to say something, but waves instead, grabbing his car keys and leaving the house quietly. He considers apologizing to Sam, but thinks better of it. He’ll leave that to Dean, even if it was technically his own fault.  
   
He drives home, tapping the wheel spasmodically because he could never keep a beat, muttering lines of songs and streaming them together into some kind of song for the unconditionally horny and eternally sad, stitches the snippets together and folding it up tightly into the chambers of his heart.  
   
Castiel stands outside his front door for a long moment, weighing his options since he’s sure Gabe is inside. In the end, he sighs, walks through the alley at the side of their house to the back. He hoists himself over the wooden fence, feet scrabbling at the planks, skinny arms flexing. He lands on the other side, waits for his breathing to still, and lets himself in.  
   
The kitchen is empty and Cas lets out a sigh of relief, going to the fridge and pulling it open. He scowls at the stark glass shelves and pulls out a hunk of cheese and an open can of peaches with saran wrap over the top. He chugs the peaches down, wiping juice off his chin with the back of his hand. He flashes back to the morning and closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling heavily before laughing at himself. He leaves the can on the counter and unwraps the cheese, taking large bites out of it because he’s too lazy to get a knife.  
   
There’s a small coughing sound behind him and Cas spins around to glare at Gabe.  
   
“What do you want?” he snaps at his brother around a mouthful of cheese.  
   
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Cassie,” Gabe replies simply, giving his brother a onceover, eyes sparking smugly.  
   
Cas rolls his eyes and takes another bite, smacking his lips loudly. He’s expecting his brother to dart around the island and put him in a headlock and is already plotting his escape route into the hall and upstairs to his room, but Gabe says nothing. He leans back against the counter, resting on his elbows, and stares at him. He’s never done this before and the back of Cas’s neck prickles, because Gabe is only quiet when he knows he’s already won.  
   
He finishes eating his cheese, pulls a plastic box with a half-eaten roasted chicken from the grocery store in it from the fridge, and pours himself a glass of milk. He sniffs the chicken carefully, shrugs, and tears off a leg. Gabe still says nothing. When Cas finishes the leg, he sets the bone back in the container with the rest and turns to his brother.  
   
“What do you want, Gabriel?” he sighs.  
   
The corner of Gabe’s mouth quirks upwards in a half-smile as he tugs on a piece of hair. “Got a little something in your hair there, Cassie,” he says nonchalantly.  
   
“Uh…” Castiel begins, touching his bangs lightly.  
   
Gabe tugs on the neck of his t-shirt. “And uh…on your collarbone, just a smidgen.”  
   
It hits Cas suddenly and he chokes on his chicken, face burning as he doubles over, coughing.  
   
“Guess you had fun at Dean’s,” Gabe laughs, leaving the kitchen, victorious.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
He kicks his sheets off with the sky still dark, gets to his feet, stretches and yawns, air cold around his skin. His skin is itching with an urge to travel and he dresses loosely, green pants with pockets and a thin black v-neck, and slipping a small blue cross his mother gave him over his head, tucking it beneath the neckline on its long cord. She gave it to him when he was small, and it was massive in his palm; he’s stopped praying since he’s long since learned it’s useless, but the charm is still warm against his skin, memories of a better time. He stopped wearing it for a while, but his life seems to have become a better time, and it no longer hurts hanging around his neck.  
   
He steals Gabe’s car keys again and starts driving, a gray hoodie zipped tightly against the morning chill. Cas parks outside Dean’s house, clutching his phone nervously. He waits a long moment before dialing, because no matter what Dean might have said before, he’s still half-expecting him to say _No, fuck off, you’re a freak you’re wrong you’re— **my favorite person**_. Castiel smiles and presses _call_.  
   
“What the fuck do you want?” Dean grouses, and Castiel sees a light go on in his room.  
   
“I’m outside.”  
   
“Eh?”  
   
“We’re going on an adventure.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“Get your ass outside, Dean Winchester,” Cas says, hanging up.  
   
Dean emerges ten minutes later, blinking in confusion as he climbs into the car. “Why?”  
   
Cas shrugs, turning the engine back on and pulling out into the road. “Because we can. Because there’s miles of road to drive. Because my favorite place is being in a car with you.” He realizes he’s getting sentimental and stops, blushing.  
   
Dean looks at him for a long moment before snorting. “You car sucks, man.”  
   
Cas kicks at a Burger King wrapper at his feet.  
   
“So where are we going, exactly?”  
   
“Don’t know. I thought we could just drive until we get tired.”  
   
“That works too.”  
   
And so they do, through miles and miles of farmland and forest and suburbs, and Castiel is sure if he scrabbles his way into heaven this is what he’ll be given. He looks at Dean and smiles faintly, because he wouldn’t mind.  
   
They make lunch out of a basket full of crap from a gas station grocery store and pull over on a dusty ridge overlooking a valley full of trees. They sit on the hood of Gabe’s shitty car, and split bags of chips and packs of powdered sugar donuts. Dean gazes out over at the landscape, humming under his breath.  
   
“Do you like to sing?” Cas asks.  
   
Dean looks at Cas, slightly startled. “I guess. I used to sing a lot when I was little. My mom does and I did too, but—” he shrugs. “Dad said men don’t sing, so I stopped.”  
   
“You’re most certainly a male, Dean,” Castiel says seriously. “I’ve given you fellatio.”  
   
Dean blinks at Cas before bursting into laughter, resting his hands on his knees, shaking with it. He looks up, wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands and pulls Cas into a kiss. Cas kisses him back tenderly, hands resting on his biceps, and Dean deepens the kiss, tongue licking over Cas’s, a hand threading into his hair. Cas pulls back, looks away, focuses on the faint scratches on the hood. He breathes deeply, closes his eyes, opens them, looks at Dean.  
   
“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes filling with tears.  
   
Dean pauses. “It’s…okay.”  
   
Cas slides off the hood wordlessly, gathering up their trash and climbing back into the car, closing the door a bit too forcefully.  
   
“Cas,” Dean cries, “Come on, Cas, don’t be like this.” He follows Cas into the car, buckling his seatbelt. Cas is clutching the steering wheel tightly, eyes scrunched tight. He’s shaking slightly and flinches when Dean puts a hand on his shoulder. Dean pulls it back and folds them in his lap, sighing.  
   
“Cas, I thought you were—”  
   
“I’m not just here for your pleasure, Dean. I’m not a living fleshlight.”  
   
“What the fuck, Cas, I know—”  
   
“No, you don’t, everything isn’t just all of a sudden—”  
   
“I know.” This time, when Dean touches Cas and he pulls away, he doesn’t let go. Cas turns towards him, bones heavy as if every movement is a struggle. And in the stuffiness of the car he’s able to let his fear out.  
   
“I don’t want to get over you.” His eyes fill with tears at his admittance, huge ones like raindrops from a thunderstorm, that fall even if he isn’t crying.  
   
“Who says you have to?” Dean frowns in concern.  
   
“Everything ends,” Cas breaks off into a sob, which Dean swallows as he cups his face and kisses him gently.  
   
“It does,” Dean agrees sadly, when he pulls back. “But I’m never going to get over you.”  
   
Cas swallows the lump in his throat and purses his lips. He laughs weakly as more tears roll down his cheeks, and Dean wipes them away, laughing as well.  
   
“Let’s get going?” he asks.  
   
Cas nods and turns the keys in the ignition, pulling back onto the road.  
   
They cross a state line and Cas wonders if they’re going to cross another as it begins to get dark. He bites his lip anxiously and glances at Dean, who’s dozing in the passenger seat. He jolts awake, as if sensing Cas’s gaze.  
   
“What?” Cas turns back to the road, fighting a nervous smile.  
   
“It’s getting dark,” he says, simply.  
   
“Uh…yeah, excellent powers of observation you’ve got there. We going home anytime soon?”  
   
Cas shifts his grip. “I was thinking we could, uh, stop somewhere.”  
   
Deans eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, realization beginning to dawn in his eyes. “Yeah?” his voice is little more than a squeak and he coughs, clearing his throat.  
   
Cas grins, laughing softly. “Yes, Dean.”  
   
Dean runs his hand across his jaw, huffing a breath. “Well, guess you’re not gonna die a virgin after all, huh, Cas?”  
   
Cas colors and gives the wheel a squeeze.  
   
Dean snorts and kisses his temple before turning the radio on and grinning at Cas’s eye roll when he settles on a classic rock station. Cas feigns irritation at the music choice but can’t help but smile, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye when he hears his voice singing quietly along.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
They find a Travelodge tucked into the woods on the side of the road. As they climb out of the car, Cas shoots Dean a look, _This is kind of sketch, are you sure we won’t get axe-murdered in this conveniently placed inn in the middle of nowhere?_ Dean shrugs, making a _Whatever_ , face, and then grinning at Cas eagerly.  
   
Cas stands outside, counting the lights on in the rooms, fidgeting, as Dean slides his fake ID across the counter and runs his fingers through his hair under the skeptical eye of the concierge. Cas watches it all through the glass doors and breathes a sigh of relief when Dean is passed a room key and receipt.  
   
He strides outside and beams at Cas for a long moment, frozen in his excitement and Cas smiles meekly because he can’t believe he’s dating a giant five year old and he can’t believe he’s dating Dean Winchester.  
   
“Shit!” Dean exclaims, suddenly, and Cas turns to him, eyes widening.  
   
“What?”  
   
“We don’t…uh…have any…” Dean rubs the back of his head, looking at his feet.  
   
Cas stares at him blankly for a moment before he understands. “Oh. _Oh_. Uh…” He turns to the car. “Hold on a sec.” He climbs back inside and pauses before rummaging through the glove box and reemerging with a tube of lube and a few condoms.  
   
Dean looks at them in surprise.  
   
“It’s my brother’s car, Dean, I know my brother.”  
   
Dean grimaces. “Can we just pretend this didn’t happen and I had them on me. I don’t want to think about where those have been while we’re using them.”  
   
It’s the first time either of them has addressed what’s waiting for them in their room and Castiel balks at the words, panic rising unbidden in his lungs.  
   
“Cas?”  
   
“Huh?” Cas starts at the sound of Dean’s voice.  
   
“You okay?”  
   
He nods dumbly and starts walking to the elevator bank. Dean hurries to catch up to him. He grabs his shoulders in front of the elevators and spins him around to face him,  
   
“Cas? Are you sure everything is okay? We don’t have to…” His eyes cloud with doubt for a minute. “You do…want to? Right?”  
   
Cas kisses him earnestly and doesn’t reply.  
   
There’s an awkward scrabble in the elevator where Dean tries to push him against the wall and slide his tongue down his throat and Cas pushes him off, and then the doors ding open and they shuffle into the hallway uncertainly. Cas hesitates before surging forward and pulling Dean into a kiss, forcing his eyes shut when he catches his own eyes in the mirror on the wall. Dean gives him an odd look when he pulls back and Cas takes his hand wordlessly and leads him down the hall.  
   
Cas closes his eyes as they close the door behind them and grapples with the anxiety prying apart his lungs. _You’re my favorite you’re my favorite you’re my favorite person you’re my—_ “Cas?” Dean’s stepped close while his eyes were shut, crowded up against him but still not touching. Cas looks up at him and nods slightly. Dean takes it as permission and kisses him carefully. Cas is still for a moment before reminding himself to kiss back, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck and letting Dean maneuver him towards the bed. He flinches when it pushes against the backs of his knees and he feels Dean’s hands stutter as they pull Cas’s shirt over his head. Dean follows with his own and drops it on the floor beside Cas’s. He keeps pausing between kisses to give Cas odd looks and Cas hates him for it because what he doesn’t need right now is hesitation.  
   
Dean lets his pants drop to the floor and steps out of them and Cas looks away quickly.  
   
“Cas?” Dean asks again, worried now, because who was Cas kidding if he thought he could trick Dean.  
   
“Dean.” Cas tries to make it sound like a statement, turning them around and pushing Dean onto the bed, climbing into his lap. He tries to summon back something from yesterday, focuses on how _good_ it all was, but his body feels dirty, each touch sticky as they kiss, the sound of their mouths loud in the heavy silence of the room. Dean makes a soft keening sound, nipping Cas’s bottom lip and rolling his hips against Cas’s. Cas swallows the sound and tries not to gag, nails scraping Dean’s scalp, gasping in surprise as Dean starts to slide his boxers off and trying to make it sound lusty. It seems to work because Dean grows frantic in his touches and kisses, beginning to fumble in his eagerness. His hands leave Cas’s body and it cools in relief, but his mouth is persistent and hungry against Cas’s skin, shifting down to his throat and neck. His hands return, fingertips cool and wet with lube. He slides them down Cas’s lower back, teasing against his entrance and Cas stills his mouth, clenching his eyes shut, fingers curling and nails digging into Dean’s back, steeling himself.  
   
And it’s over just like that, Dean is gone from him as he pushes Cas away to sit on the edge of the bed, half out of his underwear, shoulders hunched, resting his elbows on his knees. He seems to have collapsed and Cas pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself in the center of the bed because everything is falling apart around them and his hands are overflowing as he tries to catch all the pieces.  
   
“Dean,” Cas begs, uncurling and crawling across the bed to Dean, kissing his neck softly, even though his skin is still crawling.  
   
“You weren’t even hard, Cas,” Dean exclaims, whipping around to face him and Cas quails at the pain in his eyes. He was expecting anger— that he could take, but the hopelessness in Dean’s face— he looks away.  
   
“Like what the fuck is this to you?”  
   
“Ask yourself that, Dean! All you want is sex!” Cas shouts back, leaping to his feet and balling his fists, gagging on his own bullshit, just like Dean is.  
   
Dean sighs and turns away again, looking at the floor. “I’m not going to have another fucking pointless fight with you, okay? You just– you have no idea what you do to me, Cas.” Dean glances at him. “It’s all about you, okay, it’s always about you and you just— you think I’m some kind of horny asshole—”  
   
“You are a horny asshole,” Cas interjects bluntly.  
   
Dean shakes his head, laughing wryly. “You really have no idea, do you?”  
   
“No idea about what?” Cas tilts his head in confusion.  
   
The look Dean gives him is full of such a twisted sweetness it makes Cas ache, something in his chest clenching tightly.  
   
Dean gets to his feet. “Cas, put your clothes on.”  
   
“Huh?” Cas asks, feeling as if Dean is part of a different timeline than him. He’s still feverish with anxiety, forced anger flushing his cheeks and Dean is…casual, tugging on his pants and turning to Cas as he yanks his shirt over his head.  
   
“Christ, can you not even dress yourself?”  
   
Cas stutters and dresses himself and Dean just sighs, smiling.  
   
“Where are we going?” he asks as he pulls his hoodie on.  
   
Dean takes his hand and holds it tightly, grabbing the room key and pulling Cas outside with him.  
   
They walk along the shoulder of the road in the dark, using the spangling of stars above their heads and the shifting sounds of their footsteps alternating between pavement and gravel to guide them. There’s a gas station somewhere past the hotel and they wander through the mild night air hoping to reach it.  
   
“Are we going to talk about this?” Dean asks suddenly and Cas startles.  
   
“Talk about what?”  
   
Dean chuckles wryly. “You can’t keep doing this to me, man.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I mean I l—” He stops himself at the deer-in-headlights look that befalls Cas’s face at the beginning of the statement. “You can’t suck my brain out through my dick one minute and then freak out when I touch you the next.”  
   
“Apologies,” Cas mumbles, looking at his feet and letting his hand fall from Dean’s.  
   
“Shit— that sounded wrong. Just—fuck—baby steps, right, Cas? Remember? Baby steps.”  
   
Cas nods, biting back tears and keeping his head down so Dean won’t see them.  
   
“I mean, we need to be consistent, okay? If making out is what you can do right now, great. If blowjobs are what you can do, that’s even better, but like, if I just wanted to have sex with you I wouldn’t have stopped. How do you think it felt when I realized you weren’t as into it as I was? That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”  
   
“I know it isn’t.” He still won’t look up, his eyes adjusting to the dark and watching the outline of his feet move against the ground.  
   
They hit the parking lot of the gas station and the garish fluorescent of the Shell sign bathes their faces in a pallid light.  They start laughing at the sudden blast of unnecessary AC when the doors slide open.  
   
“What do you want to get?” Cas asks him and Dean shrugs.  
   
“I don’t know, what do you want?”  
   
Cas thinks for a moment and knows he could make everything better by pressing close against Dean next to the Dorrito display and whispering _you_ and they could go back to the Travelodge and make out and Cas would try to take his clothes off and Dean would stop him and they’d fall asleep and everything would be _fine_. He doesn’t, just shrugs and wanders absentmindedly through the aisles, running his fingers over the various tin and plastic packages. He’s still feverish with anxiety and looks away whenever Dean catches him staring over the tops of the racks.  
   
He’s in front of the freezers full of drinks in the back, staring at a wall of milk, when the tears come. It’s like the time after he was in the car with Gabe, dozing off with his bio textbook in his lap, and his brother was belting along to the Red Hot Chili Peppers and didn’t see the semi turning the corner and they were thrown off of the road and Gabe was knocked out, blood all over his face and he felt nothing until he was standing in their dark, empty kitchen because the people at the hospital had sent him home and their dad wasn’t picking up his phone and he’d collapsed to the floor out of nowhere, leaning against the dishwasher trying to get air into his lungs. Or when he was up one night writing an essay, a few weeks after his mom left, and he went downstairs and found his father sobbing in the living room with the TV on mute and he’d slunk back to his room without a word and finished his essay and gone to sleep.  
   
“Dean,” he croaks and somehow Dean hears him, or maybe he could just _tell_ , but his arms are around Cas in no time, burying his face against his shoulder and making careful, tender sounds Cas has been dying to hear him make since the first unbidden _I have a crush on Dean Winchester_ in seventh grade when Dean ran into their math class twenty minutes late after his bus didn’t show up.  
   
“It’s okay, Cas, it’s okay. I’m not going to leave you.”  
   
Cas laughs dryly at that, a hoarse, painful noise. The relief of the words, after the horror of the entire day, crash over Cas and he turns around, wrapping his arms around Dean and gasping, “ _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ ,” and Dean just pushing his hair back from his forehead and kissing his damp skin and laughing, whispering back, “It’s okay, you don’t need to be.” And Cas wonders when Dean will get tired of not accepting apologies.  
   
They end up at the ice cream freezer next to the churros and stare at the packages through the glass for a long time before Cas reaches for the vanilla.  
   
“But I like cho—” Dean begins, snapping his mouth shut when Cas puts the carton back and reaches for the chocolate one next to it. He brushes Cas’s hand away and takes the vanilla one out. “I like vanilla. Vanilla is good too.” He smiles and Cas says nothing, blinking stupidly as Dean takes the ice cream to the cashier and buys it without another word.  
   
They walk back to the Travelodge in silence and sit on the curb of the parking lot, passing the tub between them and eating the quickly melting ice cream. Dean bumps Cas with his shoulder, jostling him and Cas smiles, looking down at the spoon buried in the ice cream and passing it back to Dean.  
   
“Hey!” Dean taps Cas and Cas looks up at where he’s pointing.  
   
He begins to ask what and then there’s a flicker of light and Dean turns to him, grinning, and he can’t help but grin back.  
   
“It’s been ages since I saw fireflies,” Dean exclaims, in a tone far too wondrous for something so simple, but it works on Dean somehow and Cas’s cheeks flush with affection.  
   
“I’ve never seen fireflies,” he says softly.  
   
They watch as more of them come out and the yellow pinpricks bob in the dark over the still-warm road.  
   
“Let’s pretend they’re shooting stars,” Cas says, and Dean lets out a bark of laughter.  
   
“Sometimes I think I get you, and then you say things and I realize I never will,” Dean says in disbelief, looking at Cas with the same wondrous gaze he gave the fireflies before, and Castiel wishes he would look at him like that forever.  
   
“For wishing on,” he adds quietly and Dean smiles before turning back to the fireflies. He closes his eyes tightly and Cas watches him, thinking _Don’t leave Don’t leave Don’t leave_ , not looking at the fireflies once. Dean opens his eyes and looks back at Cas.  
   
“What did you wish for?” he asks.  
   
“A lifetime supply of vanilla ice cream,” Cas answers, stretching out his legs and kicking his heels against the road, smiling when Dean laughs. “What about you?”  
   
Dean looks at him seriously, eyes bright in the dark, and says nothing. Cas’s neck prickles uncomfortably and for a second he thinks Dean is going to kiss him, and silently he wishes he would. Dean shifts and Cas takes a deep breath, but he just pushes the ice cream back into his lap and gets to his feet, offering his hand to pull Cas up, and still says nothing.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
They lie down on the bed and their breath is loud in the AC-rattled silence of the Travelodge, sounding rough in the stillness. Cas turns, and sees Dean looking at him. His face stays still, eyes wide and deep, drinking him in. Castiel blinks and it feels like hours of sleep in that one slow moment and somewhere in the space in between the dark of his closed eyes and the opening of his lids he christens this slow and steady feeling of tired, restless energy _home_.  
   
Dean moves closer to Cas, cupping his face with his hand. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispers, and his breath smells like vanilla ice cream.  
   
And Castiel can only nod before he leans into Dean’s lips, meeting him halfway, tugging his mouth open and closing his eyes when Dean slips his tongue into his mouth before pulling back. “I’m going to keep going until you tell me to stop,” he says, eyes steady and solemn, and Cas nods again, hands pulling at his shoulders to bring him closer.  
   
It starts out slow, Dean propping himself above Cas on one arm, bracing his legs on either side of Cas’s narrow hips. Cas rushes to keep up and finds himself ahead somehow, as Dean takes his time, as if kissing Castiel was the only thing he wanted to do in the world. Things could stay this way, unhurried and soft, and most of Castiel wouldn’t mind, would almost prefer it, but there’s a small, hungry part of Castiel that slips his hands under Dean’s jacket and drags his fingers up his sides, nails catching on the fabric of his shirt and scraping at the skin beneath. Dean hisses against Castiel’s teeth at the touch, his kisses growing harder as he presses his hips down against Cas’s. Cas groans, his eyelids fluttering in a brief flash of fear, and Dean swallows the sound with his open, waiting mouth, hands running through his hair tenderly. He pulls back, breathing heavily and resting his forehead against Cas’s. He gives him a nervous smile and Castiel can’t help but reciprocate, breaking eye contact only when Dean sits up and tugs his shirt over his head. Cas follows suit, wriggling against the mattress. He sits up as Dean ducks back down, and their mouths crash in the middle like two starving beasts. Cas pulls Dean closer and runs his fingers over the mounds of his curving spine, feeling Dean’s sparking shivers beneath his eager fingertips. Dean bites down on the tender skin of Cas’s neck and he moans, raking his nails down Dean’s back and rolling his hips. The movement accelerates their pace past Dean’s tender, questioning touches to a more desperate suck of mouth against mouth against pale, bared skin to the grind of hips.  
   
Castiel scrunches his eyes as Dean begins rocking his hips against his own in a steady, desperate rhythm. “ _More_.” He realizes he’s the one who said it after a brief moment of confusion before Dean is sliding out of his own pants and underwear in one motion and then getting to work on Cas’s. Cas tries to help by attempting to kick them off, but Dean holds his legs still and pulls Cas’s jeans off himself, laughing softly. And then he’s on him again and Cas stifles his yell at the overwhelming feeling of _SKIN_ as Dean becomes his world. Dean is everywhere and everything is _DEAN_ and Cas’s eyes are shut tightly, his legs instinctively folding up, feet pressing against the back of Dean’s thighs as his body tells him to make Dean’s world _CAS._ He might not know how to love but damn is he trying as he moans into Dean’s shoulder when their erections brush together, precome mixing and he might try to make his sounds shape the word _MORE_ again, even as the small, crying part of him in the dark behind his lids is begging to tell Dean to stop.  
   
Instead he forces his eyes open, takes in the minute details of Dean in microscopic closeness before him, the two freckles merged into one at the top of his hairline, the white-blonde tips of his lashes, the pale webbing of bluish veins on his eyelids. He wraps his arms around Dean, grasping at his shoulders and thrusting his hips upwards, cock sliding against the sweat-slick jut of Dean’s hip. Dean’s body stutters at the touch before pushing his hips back, seeking his own friction. One of Dean’s hands is propping himself up, the other splayed against Cas’s lower back. He shifts, releasing Cas and bringing the hand to his mouth, sucking wetly on two fingers. Cas makes a soft noise of protest at the loss of contact, a noise which turns quickly upwards into a sharp cry, nails digging into Dean’s back as Dean presses a finger to his entrance, teasing for a moment before sliding his finger in to the first knuckle and Cas clenches around him, ankles knotting at the dip of his lower back. Dean stills himself, and they breathe heavily in the silence for a long moment before Cas relaxes and Dean eases his finger out most of the way, before pushing back in again. This time Cas moans, a low, keening noise, at the motion, his own body moving slightly into the touch. The third thrust, Dean pushes in up to the second knuckle and Cas brings his hips up to meet him. Dean thrusts slightly as well and they both cry out as their sensitized cocks slide against each other.  
   
By the time Dean adds a third finger, Cas is half-sobbing into his shoulder, trying to work against the movement, canting his hips upward, seeking leverage. He’s only able to make more choked sounds of pleasure and Dean laughs affectionately at the sound, half-crazed with desire as he thrusts into the hollow between Cas’s cock and thigh. The push of Dean’s fingers stutters and he briefly wonders how he got from anxious bickering to ice cream to having three of Dean’s fingers _inside him_ , but then Dean crooks his fingers and finds his prostate and anything even remotely cognitive is wiped from him and he _might_ be yelling, but he can’t quite be sure as Dean massages the spot before thrusting his fingers and Cas is digging his knees into Dean’s sides hard enough to bruise, as he clenches around him and “ _Stop_ ,” he begs, untangling his legs, hands pushing at Dean’s shoulders. Dean catches his mouth in a kiss and Cas tilts his head away and says it again in a weak, trembling voice, pulling himself from the waves of pleasure wracking his body hard enough to make him shake, “ _Dean, please, stop_.” He pushes at Dean’s shoulders once more and Dean pulls back, sliding his fingers out and rolling off of Cas, but still staying close, watching him worriedly.  
   
“Cas?” he asks unsurely. “That was…good, right? You liked that?”  
   
Cas nods, still half-blinded from the feeling. It’s fading, though, quickly, and his eyes fill with tears. “I-I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I just–I can’t, not yet.”  
   
Dean nods, a hard tint of hurt flaring in his eyes and vanishing just as quickly. He kisses Cas, questioning and Cas kisses him back, searching for good things in the touch to fill the growing pit in the bottom of his stomach.  
   
“But that was…good,” he adds on dumbly. “Really, _really_ good.”  
   
Dean seems satisfied with Cas’s proclamation and smiles kindly at him before kissing his nose and climbing out of bed.  
   
“Be right back,” he says quietly, turning the light off when Cas burrows into the sheets, heading into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.  
   
Castiel assumes Dean is finishing what Cas couldn’t let them finish and lies in the dark, waiting for him. The pit becomes more of a hole, growing inside him, and he’s sure it’s going to swallow him whole. It’s a hole filled with a darkness made of aching. An aching of sadness, of loneliness, of searching, of desire, of feeling too much too fast and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s tried to hold it, and eaten it as well when it’s overflowed from his hands and it fills him up and poisons him and makes him forget everything else but the aching heaviness of his bones as he lies in his bed with the curtains drawn and tells himself _Today I will get up, today I will care, today I will learn to live without love because all love leaves_ and still, lying in the dark waiting for Dean, he thinks Dean might come back and Dean might not leave. Dean would take some of these aching multitudes from him, he is sure, with open palms and an open, smiling face, if he asked, but it’s still filling him up and devouring him and all he is is this massive _aching_ and in that moment, with Dean closer to him than he thought anyone could be, that encroaching _white_ pleasure pulled all the dark from that hole up with it and it was laid out before him and he couldn’t— the door to the bathroom opens, and Dean’s footsteps are soft and barely there on the carpeted floor (could possibly be walking away) and he climbs into bed carefully and snuggles up close to Cas and Cas pretends to be asleep.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Dean drops Cas off outside his house. He clambers out and stands on the sidewalk, Dean in the front seat, the two of them smiling at each other stupidly before Dean turns back to the wheel and pulls away. Cas watches the Impala until it turns a corner and goes inside, rolling his shoulders to shake off the firefly-lit daze clouding his thoughts.  
   
Cas opens the door and steps into the house grinning, filled with an overwhelming urge to stand on the kitchen counter and scream until Gabe comes downstairs and tell him everything about his trip with Dean.  
   
He doesn’t.  
   
He sets his keys on the shelf next to the door and walks down the hall, turning lights on as he goes. He shivers at the silence of the house— he’d forgotten how cold it was —and the way it swallows up the small sounds of his rubber-soled feet.  
   
“Gabe?” he calls. Nothing. “Gabe?” A panic starts to fill him: the prospect of all their empty rooms stacked together with just him inside, same as it’s always been, but he’s gotten used to the sound of laughter from the living room when he opens the door.  
   
There’s a light on in the kitchen and he enters the room, bracing himself for a barrage of lewd comments and insinuations from his brother as he eats peanut butter from a jar sitting on the counter. His father is sitting at the kitchen table seriously, hands folded in front of him.  
   
“Castiel,” he states and Cas swallows, hating the sound of his full name; he’s grown into the single syllable Dean has allotted him.  
   
“Dad,” Cas says, trying to meet his father’s eyes and look anywhere else at the same time.  
   
They say nothing and Cas closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Where’s Gabe?” he asks.  
   
His father shrugs. “It’s not my job to keep track of your brother.” He motions at the seat across from him. “Sit down.”  
   
Cas looks at his feet and bites his tongue. He doesn’t move.  
   
“Fine,” his father sighs. “I see you’ve finally grown a backbone.” He laughs dryly. “Where’ve you been?”  
   
“Why are you here?” Cas asks. His body is screaming at him to leave; he anchors himself more firmly to the ground. He’s ruining everything, like he always has, like he always will.  
   
“I asked where you were, Castiel. This is my house, I can come here whenever I like.”  
   
“I won an award for excellency in history in the fall. You didn’t come.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying what he’s saying, but something is making him protect Dean. Dean is his, and he won’t let his father take that from him.  
   
His father laughs again, insincerely. “I’m doing important work, Castiel, and when I am _able_ to return I expect at least you to be here, even if your delinquent brother can’t be.”  
   
“I was out,” Castiel says between gritted teeth.  
   
“For two days.”  
   
“Dean and I went on a drive.”  
   
“The Winchester boy?”  
   
Castiel nods.  
   
“I didn’t think you two were still close.”  
   
He says nothing, just balls his fists and looks at the floor and tries to make the tiles stay straight.  
   
His father watches him and pushes back from the table after a long moment, laughing his dry, fake laugh again. “You two?”  
   
Castiel doesn’t move.  
   
“Great. Both of my sons are fags.”  
   
“It’s just Dean,” Cas can’t help but interject, and immediately hates himself for it.  
   
“Well, what can I do?” he sighs. “Nothing. I can’t do _nothing_ , Castiel. Can’t raise my kids, can’t keep my wife. She’d know what to do, your mother would. She always knew what to do.”  
   
Castiel watches his father talk, not quite to him, not quite to himself, and is filled with an overwhelming sadness unlike any sadness he’s ever felt before. It’s a grieving sadness, for his mother and his father and his brother and their empty, empty house.  
   
“Where are you now, huh? Hitchhiked out of here and left me with these two batshit crazy fuck-up kids. I don’t know how to raise kids, just look at them. What am I supposed to _do_ with two little boys, anyway, huh?” He laughs, resting his head in his hands, but it sounds more like crying.  
   
Castiel backs out of the kitchen, not turning around until his legs bump against the bottom stair. Then he turns, and runs as fast as he can upstairs, on the balls of his feet so he makes no noise. He throws himself into his room, slamming the door shut and sliding down against the wood, pushing his head between his knees and wringing his fingers together as he tries to get a handle on his ratcheting breath. _You’re my favorite person You’re my favorite person You’re my favorite person You’re my favorite SHUT THE FUCK UP AND BE NORMAL_.  
   
Cas’s neck snaps up and he looks around his room, bed half-made, books and papers in messy stalks across his desk, clothes on the floor. He pulls himself to his feet and undresses, crawling into bed and pulling the covers all the way over his head before turning on his music player. The small cavern of cotton and down lights up blue-white and he turns the volume all the way up, screwing his eyes shut as the backlight fades off. He sighs, long and ragged, salt-heavy and sob-laden, and thinks about calling Dean.  
   
He doesn’t.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Castiel wakes up a half hour early and tiptoes around his father in the kitchen, asleep at the table beside an empty bottle, and takes the bus a half hour early, blasting music, and gets to school a half hour early and sits on the floor in front of his locker staring at the rows of lockers across from him, exactly the same as the ones at his back, and plays his music so loud it tears at the edges and distorts as it leaves the headphones and enters his ears. He ignores Dean’s text; _where are you_? and lets his eyes slide shut, tears beading on the insides. He rubs his eyes and opens them at the sound of the first footsteps in the hall since he got there.  
   
“Cas?” It’s Dean and he wants desperately to make a scene, scream, cry, hit him, watch Dean’s face fill with confusion and then crumple. But why. He says nothing, just looks up and forces a smile.  
   
“Hey, where were you this morning?”  
   
Cas shrugs.  
   
“Is everything okay?”  
   
He nods.  
   
Dean gives him a funny look, but accepts his response nonetheless and Castiel _hates him_ for it. He wants Dean to make a scene and scream at him and maybe hit him and maybe cry, although he doubts Dean cries with his body, just with the green right behind his eyes.  
   
“Hey—”  
   
“Why do you put up with my bullshit?” Cas asks.  
   
Dean is startled for a moment, taken aback, then frowns. “Cas?”  
   
“I mean I really cannot comprehend what motivates you to take me around and kiss me and then smile like a fucking idiot when I don’t let you.” He gets to his feet. “It’s pathetic, really. Are you expecting some great fuck at the end of it because I assure you, it’s not going to happen. I have NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING IN CASE YOU DIDN’T NOTICE, Dean, and it’s not like you can just _fix me_ , okay? You can say all your cute bullshit and listen to mine and do all your cute, bullshit things, but none of it is going to matter at fucking all, because I’m still SAD and you’re still a HORNY ASSHOLE and I’m sick of it, okay, Dean, because _‘You’re not going to leave me’_? Everyone leaves Dean, and I’m not going to wait for you to do it.” He turns away, trying not to look at Dean, but still catching a glimpse of his rigid face and glassy eyes and walks down the hall, shoulders straight and lip stiff and looking for the sense of relief he’d expected to find, and instead just teetering on the edge of a very, very deep hole.  
   
Castiel skips history, because he can’t listen to his teacher drawl on about dead white guys for an hour and he can’t sit there looking at Dean look at him.  
   
He scrounges around the cul-de-sac at the back of the school, where the parking lot wraps around the building. He kicks his way through the bottles other people have left here before him, sips at the dregs of a few, screwing up his face at the burn, and sits on the edge of an unused wheelchair ramp, resting his arms on the flaking railing. He stares at the murky bottles scattered in the scraggly weeds growing amongst the asphalt, and the wall layered in tags and half-finished spray paintings and seeks some sort of meaning in it, but finds none. His vision is swimming and he closes his eyes and presses balled, white fists against them, pressure building in the kaleidoscope of colors behind his lids until he snaps his head up and swings himself to the ground, striding forward and picking up a bottle. He gives it a onceover before hurling it at the wall. He winces when it shatters and ducks away from the shards of glass.  
   
He grabs another and throws it without a second thought. He doesn’t flinch when it breaks this time, keeps his eyes open and almost enjoys the sensation. The cracking almost-scream of the splintering glass does something to pierce the heavy numbness that has settled in his gut. And he takes another and another and throws them until he becomes the motion of bending and grasping and shoulder-pivoting as he releases the near-crystalline vessel and it explodes around him and maybe this is what the orgasms he never had would look like if scientists transcribed them from the skin-close whisper-moments he shared with Dean. And those are a thing of the past now and the bottles scream when they shatter, the sound buckling from his lips, an animal sound of _why why why_ and this isn’t what he wanted he doesn’t know what he wants but it isn’t this.  
   
He hears the sound of a door closing and turns, a green beer bottle loose in his hand. Jo is standing at the top of the ramp, her face falling when she sees him.  
   
“Cas, baby…” she begins, hopping over the edge and approaching him tentatively, as if he is a rabid animal, and he’s fucking _tired_ of being handled carefully; he wants someone to be rough with him, throw him at the wall and call him on his shit. “What did you do?”  
   
And his legs are buckling now, as he rasps, “Dean,” and leans into Jo, her arms warm around him, pulling him to the ground and sitting with him as he howls against her neck, the sound of bottles breaking, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do now that he’s all alone again. He’d forgotten the feeling and it’s eating him up, unstoppable.  
   
“Why are you here?” he asks her, when his ratcheting, tearful pants subside.  
   
Jo smiles weakly. “Someone needs to be the person that finds you when you’re upset.”  
   
“Are you my best friend?” Cas asks dubiously.  
   
“Probably not,” Jo laughs, “But we can say I am.”  
   
She kisses his forehead and hugs him tightly again, even as he tries to push her off.  
   
“There’s a party at my house this weekend, Mom’s out of town, you should come,” Jo says when she releases him, getting to her feet and offering a hand to Castiel. He takes it, sniffling, and allows her to pull him up.  
   
“Can I inebriate myself to the point of vomiting and kiss a bunch of people I hate?”  
   
“Sure, whatever floats your boat,” Jo shrugs, throwing an arm around his sullen shoulders as they walk away.  
   
Castiel takes a deep breath and feels a sharp, sore tremor in his chest. He takes another, steadying himself. He expects the feeling is his heart holding its pieces together in order to keep beating— painful, but survivable, like everything else, and he can’t help but feel he’s coming out the other end of a terrible storm, and he’s lost his ship and might never have another again, but he’ll keep swimming, and keep sailing, and somehow, he’ll reach the shore.

   
• • • • • • • •

   
Jo hands him a beer the minute he walks in the door, and he takes it graciously, chugging half in one breath and scanning the crowd in her living room. He knows most of the faces, but never took the time to learn their names. Maybe he should start now. He notices the way some of them look at him and maybe that’s what Jo meant when she called him a _hot commodity_ what feels like a lifetime ago. He dubs those days P.D.— pre-Dean, dark days, days when Dean was a star and he was a satellite and they had yet to collide. And then they did and it was so, so bright. Castiel misses that brightness, misses the way Dean lit him up: when they were touching, when they were driving, when they were talking, walking, laughing, fighting, kissing, hands everywhere just warmth and skin and sparks and— he takes a deep breath, and then another, one at a time because that’s all he can do nowadays, breathe and hope it’s enough. He finishes his beer and gets another.  
   
He begins to approach a dark-haired girl who’s been watching him across the room and stops, halfway, sick with panic at the thought and makes his way to the couch instead, flopping down and nursing his beer. A pair of boys and a ditzy-looking blonde come over with a bottle of vodka and Cas doesn’t get their names but they all become friends, beckoning over two more people and begging a set of shot glasses from Jo. She obliges, and joins them for a while, tilting their heads back and downing one shot after another without hesitation. Cas’s head is spinning when someone climbs into his lap, and he guesses he must have invited them because his mouth is open against her eager lips, but not quite kissing back, his hands are knotted loosely in her hair. His eyes are open and he sees her lashes fluttering against her cheeks, a hand creeping down his side. His gaze wanders around the room, watching people. And then Dean enters the room from the kitchen and seems to immediately find Cas. He expects his face to fall, or anger to cloud his delicate features— something, some sort of brimming, passionate upset, but he only seems to sigh with his body, a half-smile quirking his lips. He crosses the room and carefully pushes the girl off. She looks confused for a moment, but doesn’t protest.  
   
“I don’t think that’s your job,” he says quietly, pulling Cas to his feet and gripping his shoulders when he sways.  
   
“Hey, Cas,” he says.  
   
Cas just stares at him, not quite sure how to respond. He’d broken up with Dean, or at least he thought he had, and it might feel like someone stabbed him with a rusty knife and left it in his side, but he knew what was supposed to happen and this _definitely_ wasn’t it.  
   
“I was occupied,” he says gruffly, trying to scowl at Dean, but finding it difficult at the softness of the turned-down lights in the living room, and the little extra bit of gel in his hair.  
   
Dean half-laughs. “And you weren’t enjoying it. Your eyes were practically screaming _help me_.”  
   
Cas’s head is still swimming and Dean smells faintly of vanilla and it’s taking all of Cas’s motor skills to not just lean into Dean and start nuzzling his neck.  
   
Jo’s half-brother Ash finally gets the stereo system working and hollers from the other side of the room as music starts pumping through the house and Dean’s eyes crinkle at the sound.  
   
“Bratty indie shit,” he says and Cas feels like smiling, but doesn’t.  
   
“Yeah, I like them.”  
   
“This is dancing music,” Dean says, a hand going around Cas’s waist, fingers hooking into his belt loop and pulling him close, his other hand resting lightly on Cas’s forearm. They’re toeing a line, Cas can tell that much, but he’s not sure what side of if they’re on, or what side he wants to be on.  
   
“I guess it is,” he replies quietly.  
   
Dean smiles.  
   
“I don’t dance.”  
             
“I’ll teach you.”  
   
Castiel doesn’t consent, but allows Dean to pull him even closer, moving against him, laughing as Cas impulsively moves to mirror Dean and suddenly the room is full of people, jumping up and down to the screeching guitars, limbs and smiles all one writhing knot and Castiel feels like they’re the center of it and all he can see is Dean’s face. For a minute he forgets the aching and the decimated remains of his ship because Dean is his ship and also his shore and he could sail with him on this sea of sound forever. Dean moves forward, in time to the petulant voice of the singer, mouthing against his neck and whispering “This is my downfall,” and the words swell in Castiel’s chest, bright in Dean’s eyes too and he pulls him into a kiss, more teeth than anything, just the scrape of frantic mouths begging _Don’t leave me_ and Dean is pleading the three words too now and Castiel gasps them into his mouth, “ _Don’t leave me_. I’m _sorry_ ,” and they burn in his throat and his blood and Dean just replies, “I know you are,” and kisses him again, as the floorboards shake from the weight of jumping, hopeful feet. The music builds in a crescendo around him, and he takes Dean’s hand and leads him upstairs to a guest room he once worked in with Jo for a project.  
   
Dean closes the door behind them and Cas crowds him up against it, licking the seam of his lips and then the roof of his mouth, hands sliding beneath his shirt, nails scraping his sides as he tugs it over his head before stripping his own. He pulls him to the bed and hesitates as he sits on top of Dean, feeling his erection against his own, through their jeans. Dean’s eyes are open, watching Cas, chest rising and falling frantically, hands tracing patterns against his bare skin and he’s so _open_ Cas is ready to flee the room and call it off and take his losses, but Dean pulls him down and kisses him like he’s been dying for it and it’s only been a week but maybe he has been. It’s not impossible because Cas has been dying for it and he doesn’t even really _like_ kissing that much (although it’s been growing on him) and Cas works at their flies without breaking apart. Dean groans into his mouth at the first touch of Castiel’s fingers as they dip beneath the waistband of his boxers and skim over the flushed skin of his cock.  
   
Cas wants to say _I’m sorry_ over and over, but he can’t seem to. He just moves down Dean’s body, mouth wet and open against any inch of skin, until he’s just above his waistband. He sucks a mark below his navel and pulls his boxers and pants down enough to bare his erection. He glances upward briefly, but Dean isn’t looking at him, head tilted back towards the ceiling. Cas doesn’t pause, doesn’t take it slowly, just gets it over with and takes as much of Dean as he can into his mouth, wrapping a hand around the rest and running his tongue along the underside and over the head, pressing into the slit and Dean moans, the sound traveling down his body. Cas closes his eyes and bobs his head and he still doesn’t know what he wants because he didn’t want the shattering bottles at the back of the school but he doesn’t want this— half naked in a friend’s guest bedroom sucking cock and he wants to cry again, suddenly, uncontrollably and everything sickens him. He retches, then chokes and begins to cough. He tries to keep going, lips sliding against Dean’s length, but Dean pushes him off, just like in the Travelodge, but when Cas looks up from the floor, shirtless and jeans undone, there’s none of the worried tenderness in his face from before.  
   
“What the fuck?” he swears angrily, sliding off the bed and standing above him.  
   
Cas says nothing; he has nothing to say.  
   
“Jesus, Cas, can’t you just fucking—”  
   
Cas gets to his feet, glaring at Dean. “Can’t I just fucking _what_ Dean?”  
   
“Fucking—exactly—why can’t you just fucking fuck whatever the fuck fuck me!” Dean gesticulates wildly.  
   
“Your use of the word fuck does not enhance your meaning!” Cas yells at him, and for the first time he is well and truly _angry_ with Dean. Not at Gabe, not at his father, not at his mother, not at himself, just _Dean_.  
   
Dean grabs a lamp from the bedside table and hurls it at the wall behind Cas. It breaks with a crash and Castiel flinches, turning towards Dean tearfully.  
   
“You’re my boyfriend, Cas, and you should fucking act like it!” he yells.  
   
“If you don’t remember, I _broke up with you_ ,” Castiel shouts back spitefully.  
   
“You’re the one who choked on my cock, okay?”  
   
“Because I was trying to be a good boyfr—”  
   
“I don’t want you to have sex with me just because I want to!”  
   
“You could have fooled me!” Cas retorts.  
   
“You want me to call you on your bullshit?” Dean steps into Cas’s personal space, face twisted in rage. “Well I can, okay!” He pushes his shoulders aggressively and Cas staggers backward a few steps. “You are full of fucking shit, Castiel, and you have no idea what you want so you just make other people feel as terrible as you do even though it’s not their fault. I tried _so hard_ , Cas, and for some reason it wasn’t e-fucking-nough for your and I’m _done_ , okay, I’m done with your bullshit and your fucking panic attacks and _poor me I have a shitty home life_.” He stops for a moment, brow furrowing as if in shock at what he just said. He takes a step toward Cas, fingers brushing his arm cautiously, “Cas…”  
   
Cas pushes his hand away and staggers backward, the hole in his stomach roiling and roaring and almost laughing at him and he trips and is _falling falling falling_ and there’s no air left in his lungs and he isn’t even trying to take in more. “I hate you,” he says numbly, looking Dean right in the eye.  
   
Dean stares at him blankly before turning and leaving the room without a word, slamming the door behind him.  
   
Cas watches him go, listens to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs and the hushed silence sweep over the crowd downstairs. He follows after the sound of a second slam, knowing Dean is well and truly gone.  
   
It’s utterly quiet when Cas follows down the stairs and into the lobby, and he pushes his shoulders back and holds his head high as somewhere close to a hundred pairs of eyes fall on him. He pushes his hair out of his face and focuses on the front door ahead of him, trying not to make any eye contact because he doesn’t think he can handle the affirmation of the fact that there are _other people_ alive on this planet. He knows a million love stories are told every day, and most are forgotten, and he is filled with a sense of waste, indignity, embarrassment, that not a single one will be his. The sorrowful aching is leaking from his skin and he can imagine it dripping from his fingertips and splattering on his shoes, staining Jo’s carpet as the crowd parts before him as he walks. He sees Jo and somehow she catches his eye and she steps forward, arms out, but he keeps walking, and the tears start to fall, and then he’s running, every joint in his body bruised and sore, but he won’t stop, devouring blocks of suburban concrete. _You’re my favorite person You’re my favorite person You’re my favorite SHUT THE FUCK UP AND BE NORMAL SHUT THE FUCK UP AND BE SHUT THE FUCK UP JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP._ The Aching is screaming a victory scream and Castiel pulls the four-way folded post-it from his pocket and crumples it in his fist, dropping it without ceasing running. The air is frigid against his bare chest, but nothing burns more than his own memories, dark and purple-blue, the ugliest of bruises on the backs of his retinas, so he keeps his eyes open, bared to the wind, and he keeps running, because that’s all he has left.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Castiel checks his watch, biting his lip. 7:12. Two minutes. He glances out the window of the bus, tightening his grip on the handhold as it jerks around a corner. 7:13. He changes the song on his iPod and changes it back. 7:14. Castiel sighs and shifts his grip, skipping forward several more songs. The bus veers around a corner and he nearly stumbles into an older woman. 7:15. The bus pulls to a stop and Cas climbs off, jostled on all sides by people maybe just as sad as he is. The house is empty again, but he still can’t sleep. He crosses the corner and stands at his connecting stop and watches the Impala drive by, not even slowing down, and swallows the lump that rises in his throat so readily he almost tricks himself into thinking he likes it.  
   
He moves slowly, as if trying to walk along the bottom of the deep end of a swimming pool, and all sound seems as if it’s reaching him through a filter. People look up from their lockers and conversations when he passes and he ducks his head, trying to dodge the mixture of sympathy and disdain in their eyes, unable to even muster the energy to hold onto his pride and keep his head up.  
   
A whisper ripples down the hall and he sees Dean familiar figure at the end of the hall. His heart stutters for a moment, a mixture of longing and regret rising like bile in his throat, a tight knot of pain in his stomach. He quickly opens his locker and tries to duck his head into it as Dean approaches, but it’s slammed shut and he’s forced to look up from the warped metal and meet Dean’s intense, green gaze. He swallows thickly, mouth dry, and he doesn’t understand why Dean can’t stop haunting him and just leave him in peace, call it quits and take his losses and let both of them just fade to a set of bittersweet moments that met an unfortunate and probably avoidable end in each other’s brains. He braces himself, unsure of what to expect, but nothing good, even though he wants nothing more than to throw himself against Dean and cry and beg him to stay and apologize over and over because this time _he should be sorry_. He says nothing, waiting for what he hopes is finally the last goodbye.  
   
“You don’t hate me,” Dean says first.  
   
Cas says nothing.  
   
“And you’ll never make me believe otherwise.”  
   
He can feel everyone in the hall watching them. The air thickens between him and Dean and a shiver runs down Cas’s spine.  
   
“So it’s like that time we bought ice cream and I let us get vanilla even though I don’t like vanilla, but you do, so it was okay.”  
   
Cas stares at him disbelievingly, mouth hanging slightly open because Dean is rambling but he knows Dean well enough to understand what he’s saying, except he tells himself he doesn’t because there’s a line he has to draw in what the world has allotted him and this is so much more than that.  
   
“And I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m just trying to make you fall in love with me as hard as I fell for you.”  
   
Cas wants to tell him _I did I did I did I already have_ and asks himself _Why not?_  
   
“I’m sorry I choked on your cock,” he exclaims before grabbing fistfuls of Dean’s shirt and crowding him against the locker, laughing into Dean’s surprised gasp, choking out “ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ ” in between his frantic kisses, tugging on Dean’s lips, all hesitation knocked out of him. Someone wolf whistles, and Dean starts laughing and Castiel hates it because it makes kissing him so much harder. But then he starts laughing too because he realizes people are clapping and he wonders why life is so ridiculous as Dean wraps his arms around him and kisses him like it’s the end of the world, or maybe the beginning it’s so joyous. Castiel smiles as he pulls back and takes his hand and tugs him towards the front doors as the bell rings because it’s the ridiculous moments, he realizes, that makes life worth living.  
   
“What about school?” Dean asks.  
   
“Fuck school,” Cas replies teasingly, giving his hand a squeeze; Dean squeezes back.  
 

• • • • • • • •

   
Cas fumbles with the lock to his house, gets it open, and pulls Dean inside, so single-minded he isn’t even tempted to stop and kiss Dean in the hall.  
   
“Cas?” Dean asks, and Cas pauses, looking over his shoulder at Dean.  
   
“Yes?” Cas snaps impatiently, trying to pull Dean the rest of the way to his room. Dean stays put.  
   
“What are you doing?” Cas rolls his eyes in exasperation because from the hooded, heated look in Dean’s eyes he knows exactly what Cas is doing.  
   
He obliges him. “I’m taking you to my room so you can fuck me.”  
   
Dean grins lasciviously and tugs on Cas’s arm. “Then what are you waiting for?”  
   
“Fuck you,” Cas says, pulling Dean into his room and closing the door behind him because he doesn’t want to take any chances in case Gabe comes home.  
   
They strip quickly, standing in front of each other at the foot of the bed, wasting no time with teasing. Dean sits down on the edge of the bed and takes Cas’s hands, pulling him between his legs and smiling softly up at him. He places his hands on Cas’s hips and mouths at the pale skin of his stomach, licking a line from the bottom of his ribcage to the dip of his hipbone, nipping at the tender skin there. Cas’s breath catches as his skin leaps at Dean’s touch, hair on the back of his arms standing up. He cups the back of Dean’s head with one hand as he takes his time exploring the planes of his stomach with his tongue, deliberately ignoring Cas’s bobbing erection and enjoying his frustration. Cas takes a handful of Dean’s hair and jerks his head back. His face is flushed, a slight sheen of sweat across his brow, and his eyes are glazed with focus and Castiel leans forward, kissing him deeply. Dean wraps his arms around him, pulling him backwards on the bed. They wriggle gracelessly upwards on the too-small mattress, so their feet don’t dangle off the edge and Dean’s relentless grin is contagious and Castiel smiles as he kisses him. Dean’s hands circle his waist and he feels a hand move down his back and for a moment Cas is scared again, but Dean murmurs in his ear, mouthing a line of soft kisses along his jaw and Cas cups Dean’s face and brings his mouth to his, trying to tell him how _badly_ he really does want this.  
   
He pulls back. “Hold on,” he grunts, moving to the edge of the bed and rifling through the mess on his bedside table. He turns back towards Dean, the small bottle of lube they stole from Gabe’s car in his hand. He climbs back into Dean’s lap, grinning and Dean whispers, “I love you,” right before Cas kisses him and Cas has to bury his face in Dean’s neck so he doesn’t see the tears that fill his eyes, but he’s sure he feels them and is thankful he says nothing. He wraps his legs around Dean’s waist, sitting cross-legged in his lap, chests pressed together, and rolls his hips, letting out a low whimper at the feeling of their cocks sliding beside each other. Dean slides a finger in during the moment of pleasure and Cas gasps in shock, still surprised at the sensation. He pushes back experimentally, working with the difference in position from last time they started this. He moans and Dean curls his finger, stretching him for a minute before adding another. He pushes them both up to the second knuckle and twists, scissoring the fingers and Cas stifles a yell, half in pain and half in pleasure as Dean hits his prostate with one of his fingers. He brings them both together and goes back to the spot, carefully thrusting them against it and slowly adding a third. Cas groans, pushing back on the fingers eagerly, covering Dean’s neck and face with frantic kisses, trying to encourage him.  
   
“Cas? You good?” Dean asks, voice low and rasping and Castiel can tell he’s enjoying it as much as he is, even if he hasn’t been touched yet, their cocks pressed between their stomachs as Cas writhes against Dean’s fingers. Cas tries to say _Very_ , but just moans and nods, his face pressed into Dean’s shoulder. Dean withdraws his fingers and flips Cas carefully onto his back, kissing him once before pulling his legs back up around his waist.  
   
“Ready?” Dean asks hoarsely. Cas nods again, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck and lifting his hips as much as he can. Dean braces them with one arm resting beside Cas’s head, fingers stroking his ear lightly. The other spreads lube over down his length before wrapping around Cas’s waist, holding him up as he carefully presses the head of his cock to Cas’s entrance. Cas clenches his teeth, forcing himself to relax as Dean slowly enters him. He digs his nails into Dean’s back as he bottoms out, and they stay still for a long moment, Dean trembling from the effort of keeping still, Cas panting heavily as he adjusts.  
   
“You with me?” Dean asks, and Cas presses his forehead against Dean’s, nodding and taking a deep breath, closing his eyes.  
   
“Yes.”  
   
Dean pulls out, almost all the way, and adjusts his grip before pushing back in, letting out a strangled noise. He tries to stay still again, give Cas more time, but Cas doesn’t let him, locking their lips together and pushing upwards with his hips. Dean pulls out again and thrusts in, harder this time, and cries out when Cas clenches around him. He sets a steady pace then, keeping it slow and groaning as he sinks up to the hilt with each thrust, Cas’s spine curling as he raises his hips to meet him, making soft, surprised noises every time. Cas holds onto Dean tightly, scratching long, red lines into his back as he tries to urge him on, unable to form coherent words. Dean just moans louder with each one, snapping his hips harder against Cas’s ass. Cas raises one arm above his head, getting a grip on the headboard to give them leverage, tightening his legs around Dean’s waist. Dean moves his hand from Cas’s back to grip his thigh, lifting his leg higher and spreading it wider, changing the angle, and he hits Cas’s prostate on the next thrust, ratcheting his strangled gasps up to a shout. Dean moves his other hand to grip Cas’s slick cock, leaking precome against his stomach. He increases his pace, thrusting faster, breath uneven and leaping in great gasps as he approaches his climax, hammering into Cas’s prostate. He pumps Cas’s length as his own rhythm falters, and Dean cries out as he comes. His hips slow as he brushes his thumb over the slit and Cas grunts as he thrusts upward, every muscle in his body clenching as he comes, Dean working his cock through his orgasm. His legs drop from around Dean’s waist as his body drops in a final sigh, sagging with sudden post-coital exhaustion. Dean pulls out and flops down beside Cas, pressing a kiss to his damp temple and wiping a few sweaty locks from his forehead.  
   
“Cas, are you god?” he asks in disbelief.  
   
“That’s a nice compliment, but no,” Cas slurs, unable to keep his eyes open. He turns onto his side and snuggles up against Dean, who tugs the blankets over them and slings an arm around Cas. Dean smiles fondly at him and traces the back of his calf with his foot. Cas sighs appreciatively and moves closer, folding his arms up and resting his hands on Dean’s chest.  
   
Cas loses his virginity the time he counts it on a Tuesday. They forget to take their socks off and laugh at their feet poking out from beneath the tousled sheets in the aftermath. He is filled with a tired, restless energy and looks at Dean and feels the ache soothe itself and start again when Dean stirs, and he calls it _happiness_. He hums a song for the unconditionally horny and eternally sad and knows, for once, he is.


End file.
